


Dear Mr. Postman

by odetteandodile



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist Steve Rogers, Childhood Friends, Emotionally Significant Treehouse, Fake Marriage, Friends to Lovers, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, M/M, Mailman Bucky Barnes, Marriage of Convenience, Mutual Pining, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sickfic, Slow Burn, return to hometown, wow so much pining honestly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:22:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 52,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21614509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/odetteandodile/pseuds/odetteandodile
Summary: “I’m um—your mailman,” Bucky says, lamely. He mentally kicks himself. He’d—sort of—practiced this!I’m your old pal Bucky, good to see you again!The corner of Steve’s mouth quirks up as he glances down at the envelope on top, absently, then back up at Bucky, eyes crinkling.“I had a suspicion that might be the case, Bucky Barnes.”Bucky lets out a surprised breath in a rush. “Oh! You—you remember me?”Steve’s half-smile turns into a real one and he tilts his head at Bucky. “Of course I remember you Buck. Wasn’t sure you recognized me though—it’s been a long time.”***Or—Steve and Bucky revive an old friendship, get married (but totally just as friends, for reasons), and navigate a few of the many trials of the heart that come with falling in love with your best friend.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 467
Kudos: 1269
Collections: Marvel Trumps Hate 2019





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kalika_999](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalika_999/gifts).



> Welcome friends!! I'm happy to get this fic rolling for y'all because we have A LOT of good shit here: we've got childhood friends reunited, we've got falling in love through letters, we've got a fake marriage for health insurance, we've got hurt/comfort like nobody's business! This is a SLOW burn and I'm excited to share it. 
> 
> I'd like to thank Kalika_999 and the Marvel Trumps Hate team for this year's event, this one goes out to you! 
> 
> This fic is written and ready to go, I'll be posting updates twice a week so subscribe if you feel like keeping track :)
> 
> (Also, word on the street is there miiiiiiiiiiight be something super cute coming from nejinee as a little cherry on top of the sundae...stay tuned!)
> 
> **CW re: Medical Content w LIGHT SPOILERS**  
> *  
> *  
> *  
> *  
> If this is a concern for you: the medical issue is Steve's, it is a specific diagnosis which is life-threatening (but ultimately non-fatal). I researched the condition and treatment, but am not a medical professional. If this is something you want more details on before reading, feel free to DM me on twitter at [odetteandodile](https://twitter.com/odetteandodile) and I'd be happy to provide them to see if it'll be a problem :)

Bucky pauses at the end of the Patterson’s garden path, taking off his hat to swipe his sleeve across his sweaty forehead. It’s nearly fall, but summer is clinging this year (climate change, of course it is) and Bucky is still stuck in that awkward zone where he needs to keep the sun off but is doomed to boil to death under his long sleeves while doing it. 

He resettles his bag across his shoulder so that the strap lies flat over his collar bone. There’s still one bulky package making it hang awkwardly, and Bucky glances at the address as he tries to tuck it more comfortably into the corner of the bag. As luck would have it the house it’s headed for is at the end of his route, so he shakes his head and chooses to ignore it. 

He drops stacks of letters and grocery store circulars and pizza coupons off at the next few houses. He pauses for a moment at the Gonzales’ house, where old Mrs. Gonzales is struggling to rearrange the potted plants on her front porch, and he helps hoist a heavy pot of colorful mixed annuals onto a new metal stand. Nobody is home at the Janovic house, but Bucky drops his usual treat through the slot, and hears the satisfying frenzy of Peaches, their beagle, scrabbling at the door on the other side, baying her excitement even if he can’t also deliver it with the pats he does if she’s out in the yard when he comes by. 

Bucky’s bag gets lighter as he makes his way around the block, giving the occasional nod or wave as he passes people going about their day. 

As he comes back down the path from the front door of the Young family (whose mailbox is shaped like a frog, which honestly makes him chuckle every time he stuffs its mouth with envelopes) he notices a moving van parked on the street a couple of doors up, and he eyes it with interest. 

The old Rogers place has been empty for a couple of years now, since the last renters moved out. He still has mail for it once in a while—offers for cable and that kind of thing, addressed generically to “Our Neighbor” or “Resident” or every now and then to one of the renters who’d lived there at some point. It usually stacks up for a few weeks before disappearing, and Bucky’s never sure who comes to clear it up. He assumes someone from the largely absent property management company. 

He checks his bag and finds with a little smile of triumph that he’s got a sheet of local coupons for it today, giving him an outlet for his interest in who might be moving in after all this time. 

Once upon a time, Bucky had spent his fair share of afternoons after school running around this house, and he stills feels possessive about it, a lingering kind of affection and a sense that it deserves good people to live in it. Sarah and her son had moved away from it a long time ago now, but he’s sure he’d still know the best footholds to get up into the apricot tree in the back yard, and how to avoid the creaky board in the kitchen floor—if he ever needed to. 

He approaches slowly, tipping his head to get a look into the back of the truck, which is open onto the street, ramp down, the move seemingly in progress. The front door is open as he climbs the step onto the porch, reluctant to drop the mail into the box without satisfying his curiosity. 

He shuts the lid with a sigh of annoyance and steps back off the porch onto the sidewalk, and is just moving away down the street when a red-haired woman appears from inside the house, calling back over her shoulder, “We should do the couch next Sam, can’t get to anything else until it’s out…” 

She’s very beautiful, looking much more put together than the sweaty, irritated man who follows her out of the house, grumbling. They’re both dressed casually for moving, but somehow the woman’s black tank top and dark-wash jeans look like she might also be planning to go out somewhere hip later, where the man’s t-shirt is soaked with sweat, and the knees of his jeans are grimy with dirt. 

“Sorry, were you expecting me to do the couch on my own or did you want to give me a hand?” He asks, peevishly. 

The woman smirks at him and folds her arms by the end of the truck. “Wanna get something off your chest?” 

The man just shakes his head, rolling his eyes where he clearly thinks she can’t see him. The woman smirks, but it’s fond. She looks up as “Sam” climbs up into the truck, catching sight of Bucky watching, and gives him a nod. 

Bucky smiles hastily, and waves, embarrassed to be caught hovering. 

“Mail’s in the box!” He says, cheerfully. 

“Thanks!” The woman says, with another nod of acknowledgment. 

“Natashaaaa,” comes the muffled voice from the van, “lift _please_.” 

The woman turns away from Bucky, and Bucky turns back up the street, continuing his route. 

He wonders if he’ll see the two of them again, but doesn’t count on it. For some reason, people don’t usually end up staying at the Rogers’ place for very long. 

Bucky doesn’t see either of them when he does his route the next couple of days. In fact the only sign that the place has been re-inhabited is the presence of new, clean curtains in the front windows, and the addition of a faded welcome mat at the front door. No new names appear yet on the scant mail he drops off either. 

In fact, by the time Friday rolls around, Bucky has just about written off the new residents of the little house as likely to remain sight unseen. It wouldn’t be that weird—there are plenty of houses on his route where the people aren’t home when he comes by in the afternoon, obviously, lots of people have normal jobs where they’re gone during the day. The only reason he _does_ see so many of his addressees is because this neighborhood has an above average concentration of older people and a good number of kids. 

So he’s surprised—after leaving a large envelope in the mouth of the Young’s frog, which was too big to shut it and therefore had to be left with its pink tongue hanging open—to see a figure sitting on the Rogers’ front porch. 

Whoever it is is obscured from Bucky’s view as he comes up the sidewalk, hidden behind a tall easel and canvas in front of them. 

Bucky shuffles a few pieces of junk mail out of his bag, resettling the strap, and climbs the two steps onto the porch. 

He’d expected to find the red-headed woman, or maybe the other guy. Instead, there is a slight figure seated in a deck chair, blonde head tipped away from Bucky as he dips his brush into a palette of paints on the other side of him. 

The man turns as Bucky comes around the edge of the easel, a little surprised but not alarmed. 

Bucky blinks several times. There’s no way that’s who he thinks it is. 

The man gives Bucky a bland smile, and Bucky gestures aimlessly with the envelopes in his hand. 

“You want these or should I…?” 

“Box is fine,” says the man, in a deeper voice than one would expect from his small frame. He pushes a pair of black-rimmed glasses higher up his nose with the hand that holds the brush. “Thanks.” 

“You’re welcome,” Bucky says, faintly. 

“See you around,” says the man, returning his attention to the canvas. 

Bucky just nods, his feet carrying him automatically back down the steps onto the sidewalk. He’s halfway to the next house when he comes to his senses enough to glance back over his shoulder. The man’s golden head is turned away from him again, and his long hands work deft strokes over the canvas. 

Bucky feels as if he’s just seen a ghost. 

*

Bucky Barnes was six years old when he met little Stevie Rogers on the playground of Warren G. Harding Elementary School. He had been, he told his mother later, minding his own business—at least as much as any new first grader minds their first grade business between the tetherball court and the jungle gym. 

Little Stevie Rogers, however, had not been minding his. And when Bucky had been drawn over to the overgrown corner of the chainlink fence, it had been to the sounds of a budding fight—irresistible to any kid with too much energy leftover from several hours sitting at his desk. He’d found two boys from his class tussling with a much smaller blond boy who was practically hissing with anger. And because he didn’t think it was very fair for the two of them to be fighting against one, and because one of the two was a boy who had earlier that week gotten Bucky into trouble even though _he_ was trying to cheat off _Bucky’s_ spelling test, Bucky didn’t hesitate to jump into the fray. 

The two boys, as it turned out, had been hunting for lady bugs in the weeds around the fence and killing them to show the girls, two of whom had been upset enough to cry. Steve, who was only a kindergartner, and a small one at that, hadn’t appreciated their ruthlessness and decided that he’d do something about it himself. 

Bucky and Steve had ended recess with three skinned knees and a week’s worth of detention between them. They’d spent the next week of playtime sitting on a low brick wall beside the principle’s office, by the end of which they had become fast, inseparable friends. 

“You didn’t have to,” Steve had told Bucky, petulantly. “I’d’a shown ’em. My ma says it’s mean to hurt things that won’t hurt you.” 

“My ma says that too,” Bucky had said, staunchly, though he wasn’t exactly sure his mom _had_ said it, in so many words. But the idea felt right, anyway. “Anyway Caleb is a bully. I would’a tripped him anyway even if he wasn’t hitting you.” 

“I _hate_ bullies,” Steve had said, with a kind of fervent conviction only the young can manage to put into the word _hate_ , like it’s a swear word. 

“Me too,” Bucky had said, folding his arms firmly across his chest. Steve had nodded approvingly, and Bucky had felt the approval with a strange pride. He was a first grader after all, not a little kid like Steve any more. And yet Steve, if he was little, still seemed like a boy he wanted to know. 

It was often like that, from then on. Steve starting trouble, and Bucky jumping in without question to finish it. It wasn’t their last detention together by a long shot. But if Bucky’s mother had been alarmed at first that her previously virtuous son was suddenly in a lot more scuffles, she stopped trying to ask what had happened to Bucky’s other “nice, well-behaved” friends that he’d used to spend his time with, once she’d been introduced to Sarah and Joseph Rogers. Even as an adult, he’s not totally sure what Sarah had said to Winnie to put her at ease about Bucky’s sudden penchant for getting into playground scraps. Maybe she’d just given Winnie her speech about standing up to bullies. But whatever it was, the Rogers and the Barneses were two sides of the same coin after that. 

There had been several happy, rambunctious years, the majority of which were taken up by much more interesting things than getting in trouble—they’d climbed trees and drawn treasure maps and read the same books and generally lived in each other’s pockets at one house or the other. 

When Bucky graduated from Warren G. Harding and moved to middle school, he’d been despondent without Steve. They’d still played together in the afternoons and every weekend that they could, even when Bucky started playing on the baseball team and spent half of his Saturdays on the field. 

He couldn’t wait, he’d told Steve and his mom and Sarah and just about any of his new middle school friends who would listen, for next year, when Steve would be coming to middle school too. 

But it didn’t happen that way. At Easter of that year, Joseph Rogers passed away, and that summer Sarah and Steve had moved out of the little house—away to the city. 

Bucky and Steve had written letters to each other, for a little while, as if it were summer camp. But eventually, the connection had dimmed and gone out—extinguished by the fast pace of life and self-absorption of youth. Bucky had made the varsity team for baseball, starting dating a nice girl, realized he didn’t like nice girls and taken up a friendship-turned-something-more-confusing-than-friendship with a nice boy from the debate team instead, tried to manage B’s at least in his classes, and generally, life moved on. 

By the time he’d gotten old enough to regret losing touch, when high school graduation came around and he thought again about Steve, he wrote a letter that came back Return to Sender, and couldn’t find Steve anywhere online. He’d been sorry—but there was no help for it, these things happened. Steve and Sarah were gone. 

* 

But not all things lost are lost forever, or so it seems to Bucky as he makes his way in a fog through the rest of his route. 

Despite his surprise and uncertainty as he’d stood on the porch, he is certain by the time that he gets home that evening that it couldn’t have been anyone _but_ Steve Rogers sitting there. 

He doesn’t even look that different, Bucky thinks, as he makes himself dinner absentmindedly. Same floppy blond hair, same large blue eyes, same stubborn chin. 

Bucky wonders if it was _Steve_ who wouldn’t recognize _him_. He’s not really sure how much he’s changed in the last nearly-two-decades since they’d seen one another. His hair, after a few years of wearing it long to his shoulders, is back to the shorter style he’d worn when he was still playing ball. He’d grown it out after he ruined his rotator cuff in college and had to quit the team, a small rebellion to make way for acceptance that he was never going to go pro. But it had just been too hot to keep off his neck when he’s walking around in the sun all day, so it’s back now to short on the sides with just a few curls on top to go frizzy with sweat under his hat. He sometimes wears a beard, which he certainly couldn’t do at age twelve. Bucky rubs his hand across his scruffy jaw, thinking about the small amount of salt flakes that have crept into it too. 

Maybe he ought to shave this weekend, he thinks. Bucky dismisses that as stupid. He can just introduce himself to Steve, if or when he sees him again. He opens his phone and adds razors to his grocery list anyway. 

He wonders, all through his weekend routine—at the gym, up and down grocery store aisles, through dinner at Becca’s—what Steve Rogers is doing home after all this time. 

Bucky had expected constantly that one day he’d go by the Rogers’ place and see a For Sale sign in front of it. He’d felt a small pang when it had been rented out, and another when the renters had left and it was abandoned to sit seemingly locked up and empty for the last few years. What was Steve doing all this time? Had he gone away to college, like Bucky had before returning? Was he painting for fun or something else? He tries to picture Steve as a professional artist, and finds that it makes perfect sense to him. He likes the idea. 

He shaves his beard off on Sunday afternoon, and surveys his freshly smooth face in the mirror, trying to determine what changes time has made to it. There are fine lines around his eyes, but other than that Bucky just isn’t sure. 

The weekend goes by in a swirl, as he tells himself that he’s not pre-occupied more than is usual by seeing an old friend. But he has trouble falling asleep Sunday night, thinking about how he’ll make his reacquaintance with Steve, and worrying about how long it might be before he runs into him again to get the chance. 

He’s distracted on his route the next day, distracted filling his bag in the back of the mail truck, distracted when Mr. Gonzales asks him how it’s going. He nearly forgets to give Peaches her treat, and would have for sure if she hadn’t let out the most heart-wrenching howl he’s ever heard as he closed the gate behind him. 

There’s very little food for the frog at the Young’s today, and Bucky’s eyes are already being pulled to the next house as he shuts the flap. 

His heart trips a little when he sees the broad rectangle of the canvas perched on its easel, and he pulls the letters for the Rogers’ house out of his bag with slightly shaky fingers. On the top of the stack, there’s a bill addressed not “Resident,” or “Our Neighbor” but directly to Steven G. Rogers. Bucky smiles. If Steve has gone through the trouble of changing his address, it might mean he plans to stay for a little while. 

Bucky clears his throat as he mounts the porch steps, and Steve’s head pops around the edge of the canvas, blue eyes peering at Bucky curiously from behind his glasses. There’s a smudge of red paint on the nose-bridge from Steve pushing them up. 

“Hey, got your mail,” Bucky says. 

Steve smiles and sets down his brush and palette, reaching for a rag to wipe his hands. “Thanks, I’ll take it,” he says, reaching for it. 

Bucky hands him the stack of letters, and chews on the inside of his cheek. 

“I’m um—your mailman,” Bucky says, lamely. He mentally kicks himself. He’d—sort of—practiced this! _I’m your old pal Bucky, good to see you again!_

The corner of Steve’s mouth quirks up as he glances down at the envelope on top, absently, then back up at Bucky, eyes crinkling. 

“I had a suspicion that might be the case, Bucky Barnes.” 

Bucky lets out a surprised breath in a rush. “Oh! You—you remember me?” 

Steve’s half-smile turns into a real one and he tilts his head at Bucky. “Of course I remember you Buck. Wasn’t sure you recognized me though—it’s been a long time.” 

“No I—I did!” Bucky says, earnestly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I was just surprised the other day so I wasn’t sure til after but—I missed you.” He cringes internally at how that sounds. “I mean, I was always sorry that we lost touch.” 

“Were you?” Steve asks, quirking an eyebrow over his frames. 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, a little sheepish. “I tried to write—ten years ago maybe. But it came back. Didn’t know how to contact you after that. I’m sorry.” 

Steve shakes his head, his expression unreadable. “Wasn’t your fault. I should’ve written you. Or called your ma. It’s been—” he hesitates. “Well, like I said, it’s been a long time.” He shoots Bucky a curious look. “Didn’t know you were back in town.” 

Bucky shrugs. “Left for a bit. But I like it here. Like being near family.”

Steve nods, but his smile goes slightly tight at the corners, and Bucky kicks himself again for his lack of tact remembering why Steve and Sarah had left in the first place. 

“Sorry,” he says again. 

Steve shakes his head, and sets the letters on the stool beside him, but when he looks back up his expression is guarded. 

“Don’t be. I—I missed you too. Nice to see you again.” 

“Yeah? I—” Bucky starts eagerly. But he realizes that there was no kind of invitation in the statement, so he reins back his enthusiasm a notch. “I uh—this is my route every week day so—so I guess I’ll see you around sometimes?” 

Steve leans back in his chair, and casts a considering look around the small space of the front porch. 

“There’s good light out here.” He fixes his eyes again on Bucky, and this time he flicks his gaze up and down him—it’s nothing, really, just a quick measuring glance, but it sends a little thrill through Bucky anyway, wondering what Steve sees, what he thinks of Bucky all grown up. “So I’m guessing I’ll be seeing you tomorrow, Barnes.” 

Bucky nods, a little too hard, and takes a tentative step back. “Yeah, great! I’ll—I’ll see you.” He descends the two steps back to the sidewalk, and turns around with a small wave. “Later, Steve.” 

“Later, Buck,” Steve says, his half-smile back. 

Bucky waves again, like an idiot. But he grins like an idiot too, all the way down the street.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Bucky laughs weakly. “Yeah, guess so. It’s a lot easier to make friends when you’re a kid, I dunno what gets so hard about it.”_
> 
> _“As I recall you like to pick up friends by getting involved in their fistfights,” Steve says, his eyes crinkling at the corners wickedly, “maybe you out to hang around outside more bars in the late hours, see what you can find.”_
> 
> _Bucky grins and looks down at his scuffed tennis shoes. “Maybe so.” He glances back up at Steve quickly. “You still getting into your share of fights these days, Rogers? Maybe you oughta just tell me what bars_ you _frequent, cut out the guesswork.”_

True to his word, Steve is sitting in the same spot the next day when Bucky comes by. It’s a little earlier in the afternoon than it has been, and it’s warm and sticky in the still golden air of late September. 

Bucky climbs up onto the porch, heart buzzing a little with anticipation. 

Steve greets him at once, with a bright, sunny smile that fills Bucky with a kind of relief he chooses not to examine. If Steve is happy to see him again too, after all these years, then it can’t be weird that Bucky has been looking forward to this since yesterday. 

“Hey Bucky,” he says, cheerfully, “how’s the mail business?” 

Bucky grins at him, and rifles through his bag for the couple of items addressed to the house. “Can’t complain. I like spending the day outside, most of the time. Especially before the winter.” 

“You always liked being outside better,” Steve remarks, wiping his hands off on a rag, and setting it aside. He’s dressed simply, in a pair of faded black jeans and a paint-stained grey t-shirt. His feet are bare, and his hair is tousled over his glasses. Bucky notes that he’s since cleaned the red off of the bridge of them, but there’s a new smudge of blue along one side. 

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. It’s still true—one of the things he likes about being back here is all the hiking trails in a half hour or so drive that keep him busy all spring and summer. It’s just getting late enough into the fall now that most of his favorites up into the mountains are starting to close for the season, and he isn’t looking forward to going to ground for the winter, but such is life. 

Bucky tips his head toward Steve’s canvas, which is angled away from his current view. “Can I…?”

“Take a look,” Steve says, turning the canvas so Bucky can see what he’s working on. 

The painting is vibrant and bold, bright colors slashing across the space in confident strokes. But the scene—a row of little houses, like a colorful dream version of this very street—is comforting, familiar in a welcoming way. The juxtaposition tugs at something in Bucky. He’s not really a big art guy, but he knows when a piece makes him feel something, and this one definitely does. 

“Oh,” he says, softly. “I—Steve I really love it.” He looks at Steve, and finds Steve’s eyes fixed on him, watching his reaction intently. His mouth twists, pleased, and a faint flush spreads across his cheeks as he turns his own eyes to the canvas too. 

“Do you—is this what you do now? You’re an artist?” Bucky asks. 

Steve huffs a laugh and shakes his head, taking his gaze from the painting and looking down at his paint-stained fingers. “Sort of something like that. Trying.” 

“It’s—you’re really good, Steve,” Bucky says, rocking back on his heels and looking down at the top of Steve’s head. 

“Thanks,” Steve mumbles, not looking up. The back of his neck is pink now too. He looks up at Bucky, a quizzical expression on his face, and raises his hand as if to gesture at him, but presses the heel of his palm against his chest instead in an unconscious motion. 

“See you tomorrow?” Steve says. 

“See you tomorrow,” Bucky agrees. 

The next day, the easel is nowhere to be seen. Instead, Steve is perched on his chair with a sketchpad in his lap, fingertips blackened by charcoal dust, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth and brow furrowed in concentration. At least, until he spots Bucky coming up the walkway, and his expression clears at once as he tosses the sketchpad to the side. 

“Hello again!” Steve says, wiping his hands down the thighs of his jeans, his legs stretched out in front of him, heels resting on the porch railing. 

“No mail today,” Bucky says, climbing up onto the porch anyway as Steve sits up straight, placing his feet back in the tile floor. 

“Oh,” Steve says, with a small frown of confusion. He brightens quickly. “That’s okay, better than bills right?” 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, with an awkward laugh. He’s not sure what to do without the excuse of a stack of envelopes to hand between them, but he couldn’t just pass by without saying hi, either. 

Steve eyes him, and relaxes back into his chair a little. “How’s your ma, Buck? How’s Becca? You said they’re still in town right?” 

“They’re good. Mom retired from the school last year, she’s taking care of Becca’s kids now most days. She’s got two—preschooler and a toddler.” 

“Oh yeah?” Steve asks, eyes lighting up. 

“Yeah, they’re cute as fuck and total monsters,” Bucky says, laughing. He reaches for his phone, then hesitates. “You wanna see a picture?” 

“ _Obviously_ I want to see a picture, dummy,” Steve says, reaching a hand out. 

Bucky slips his phone from his pocket and scrolls quickly to find one—it’s not that hard, mostly his camera roll is Becca’s kids, Peaches and a few other dogs on his route, and screen caps of dumb memes that made him laugh. He finds one he took of Becca and the kids at the park last week, when they’d visited before dinner. Katie, the four year old, is hanging upside down from one of the bars, looking extremely proud of herself while Thomas, the baby, tries to shove a handful of sand in his mouth. Becca is half-crouched between them, one hand stretched for Katie, the other reaching for Thomas. Bucky had thought it was pretty funny: a portrait of parenthood. 

“They’re cute,” Steve says, peering at the picture, and zooming in on Thomas’ fat little face with a laugh. “Looks like he got the Barnes’ look _and_ brains.” 

Bucky gives a surprised bark of laughter at Steve feeling free enough to tease him. “ _Hey_ I’ll have you know Becca tried to teach him baby sign language and he knows _three_ whole words: eat, more, and no.” 

Steve snorts and hands Bucky back his phone. “Guess you see a lot of them, huh?” 

“Most weekends we all get together for dinner at Becca’s—” he pauses. “You should uh—you should come sometime. I know they’d love to catch up.” 

Steve smiles, but it’s a little bit sad, and he makes that same, funny gesture with his hand to his chest, as if he’s pressing something back. “Maybe…maybe sometime.” 

“Okay,” Bucky says, hyper-aware of the fact that that wasn’t an unreserved yes, and feeling a little awkward for pushing. “I should…go, I guess. On the clock, ya know.” 

Steve just nods, with another close smile. 

But when Bucky looks back over his shoulder, Steve’s eyes are still on him. 

“Tell me about the neighborhood,” Steve says, when Bucky arrives the next day. “Anybody I know still around?” 

Bucky grins, stepping up in front of Steve and leaning back against the railing of the porch into something more comfortable than just hovering beside him. 

“Let’s see…Gonzaleses are still there, but Sophia moved out, got married a couple years ago.” Bucky cocks his head, glancing back up the street thoughtfully. “Oh, remember the Thompson kid? Andy? He actually bought the place from his parents a year or two ago—that’s all his kids’ junk in the front yard, he’s got like _four_ if you can believe it. They’re wild. Um…I think that’s about it still left though.” 

Steve smiles up at him and curls one of his legs up onto the chair beneath him so that he can lean forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “So, anyone I should meet?” 

Bucky laughs. “Depends—I’m guessing the Youngs are the type to bring cookies by if they realize there’s someone new in, eventually. And you’ve _got_ to meet Peaches—she lives three doors up and is a beagle. She is attached to two humans, they’re okay too I guess, but she’s the real star. I’ve heard that the Shraeders throw a pretty epic Christmas party, if you like that sort of thing you may want to get on the invite radar now.” 

Steve nods amiably, like he’s taking mental notes. 

“I um—I saw your friends, when they were helping you move in,” Bucky says. “They live nearby or…?” 

Steve smiles and shakes his head. “Sam isn’t too far, Natasha is still up in the city. I don’t think I still have any friends actually in town anymore. Besides you.” 

Bucky’s chest gives a pleased flutter. “They seemed nice, though.” 

“They are,” Steve replies. “Maybe you’ll meet them for real sometime. How about you, I guess you still have a lot of friends here?” 

“Oh,” Bucky says, startled. “I mean, a few. It’s not—I’m still getting reacquainted, I guess.” 

It’s true, despite the fact that he’s been home for close to five years there aren’t a ton of people around that he’s close to. He’s got a few friendly acquaintances he’ll meet up with from time to time, but for the most part he realizes his best friend at this point is probably just Becca. It suddenly occurs to him to wonder if it’s strange, that he hasn’t made the effort to put down more roots than that when he has every intention of sticking around. It strikes him as sort of embarrassing, now that he says it aloud. He didn’t used to be someone who had trouble making friends, it’s just—he hasn’t been that invested in it in a little while. 

“I keep in touch with a few people from college,” he adds, lamely. “They’re mostly all over the place now though.” 

Steve doesn’t _look_ like he’s judging him, at least. “Adulthood is a real treasure chest, right?” 

Bucky laughs weakly. “Yeah, guess so. It’s a lot easier to make friends when you’re a kid, I dunno what gets so hard about it.” 

“As I recall you like to pick up friends by getting involved in their fistfights,” Steve says, his eyes crinkling at the corners wickedly, “maybe you out to hang around outside more bars in the late hours, see what you can find.” 

Bucky grins and looks down at his scuffed tennis shoes. “Maybe so.” He glances back up at Steve quickly. “You still getting into your share of fights these days, Rogers? Maybe you oughta just tell me what bars _you_ frequent, cut out the guesswork.” 

Steve snorts. “Nah, I don’t tussle much these days. Don’t go to many bars either.” He pauses, and then adds, “It’s just so easy to start shit with bigots on the internet in the comfort of my own home instead, you know?” 

Bucky laughs, though he’s fairly certain there’s a good chance Steve isn’t joking at all. 

“How about you? You go out much?” Steve asks. 

Bucky considers the question, and chews on the inside of his cheek. The plain answer is no, not really. But he also finds himself with a burning curiosity on a particular question of who Steve is these days, and how it may or may not dovetail with some of Bucky’s own developments since they saw each other last. So he throws caution to the wind. 

“Not a ton. But I’ll grab a drink down at The Goat once in a while, if I need a little excitement.” 

The Garrison on Avenue Three, or The Goat, as it is affectionately or sometimes less affectionately known in town, is a pub in an odd standalone Victorian mansion near the end of Main Street that’s been open as long as Bucky can remember. And while it isn’t explicitly a gay bar, it’s always been one by default, the only one of its kind in this mid-size town. 

Bucky isn’t sure if Steve will remember it as such—it’s not like they knew much about it as kids, aside from the eclectic collection of statuary arrayed on its wrap-around front porch which, looking back with the eyes of adulthood, is all extremely gay. But he can’t resist fishing for a reaction anyway. 

He’s gratified by a tinge of pink at the tips of Steve’s ears. It’s not that it’s specifically important or anything, he’s just curious where Steve ended up with that sort of thing—and he feels like he wants Steve to know who he is now, sooner than later. 

“Can’t believe that place is still around,” Steve mutters. “Has it, um—changed much?” 

Bucky can feel his own face flushing hot now, but he forces himself break eye contact as he shakes his head. “Not a bit, same as it ever was.” He tips his head, and ignores his flaming cheeks. “Added some new art though, I wonder what you’d think of it now that you’re a professional and all.” Bucky swallows hard, heart thumping as he wonders if he’s gone a little far. 

Steve’s expression goes flustered, and Bucky clenches his teeth, kicking himself. 

“Ah, I would but I don’t—” he pauses, twisting his hands in his lap for a moment while Bucky waits for the awkward brush off about how he wouldn’t be the right kind of clientele for the local queer bar. But then he finishes, looking slightly unhappy, “I don’t drink, actually.” He gives Bucky a tight smile. “If I did, it sounds like that’s where I’d want to do it, though.” 

Bucky sucks in a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, suddenly not sure which of those statements he wants to follow up on, or if there’s an appropriate question to ask about either. 

Steve is looking up at him, his eyebrows drawn together in something like discomfort or concern waiting for Bucky’s response. 

Bucky, who up until this moment has been unexpectedly bold in this conversation, feels his courage fail him as he reaches for something more to say. He wants to ask…so many things. But instead he says, lightly, 

“Ah well, it’s nothing to write home about really, you aren’t missing too much.” 

Steve’s face floods with relief, and his shoulders settle a little bit from where they’d climbed toward his ears. 

“Sure,” he says. He doesn’t offer any more comment than that, and Bucky finds he doesn’t have it in him to press for it. 

Bucky pushes himself forward from the porch railing, settling his hands at the cross strap of his bag. 

“Anyway, I should…get going.” 

Steve nods, and Bucky’s stomach twists at how Steve looks further relieved by it. He should have left well enough alone. He doesn’t really know, still, if Steve is even interested in reviving any kind of—of friendship between them. It’s possible he’s just polite for the sake of knowing he’ll be regularly seeing Bucky, and casual small talk is all he’s up for. Bucky drops his head, moving to leave. Belatedly though he remembers he’s here for an actual job, and he reaches hastily into his mailbag to hand Steve his daily supply of coupons and advertisements. 

Steve reaches for them, his eyes keen on Bucky’s face. 

“When you come tomorrow,” Steve says, and he sounds earnest, “I want to hear about where you went to college and—and all that.” 

Bucky unducks his head to meet Steve’s eyes, trying to determine what this olive branch means. He comes up with only a question mark. But it seems like a good thing. 

“Yeah. That sounds good. I’ll—see you tomorrow.” 

“Looking forward to it.” 

Bucky really hopes that he is. 

It goes on like that from then on, until it becomes a routine and Bucky stops wondering if Steve will be there when he walks up to the house. 

The minutes that he stands chatting with Steve grow longer, too, even as the days are starting to shorten. Bucky starts setting his alarm half an hour earlier, and then an hour, so that he can start his route with enough time to talk to Steve as long as he can—if not as long as he wants to, never quite enough time—and still finish his work day before the sun is fully down. 

So, they talk. And they laugh. In bite-sized increments of ten minutes, and then fifteen, and then half an hour, Bucky remembers just what it was that he’d always liked about Steve Rogers. And he learns new things, too, about what he likes—really, really likes—about Steve Rogers-the-adult, who has a biting sharp sense of humor and is just as fiery as he always was, though his attention has turned from the personal bullies of childhood to the larger ones of the world. 

Bucky grows more and more reluctant each day to shake himself free of Steve’s bubble and continue on with his route. But any time he makes some sort of allusion to meeting elsewhere, inviting Steve to see him somewhere else, Steve gently and deftly redirects the conversation. He never says an outright no, and Bucky is pretty sure that Steve is enjoying their meetings too, if not as much as he is, but he doesn’t take him up on any of the hints or pursue it further. After the third or so attempt, Bucky stops hinting. Maybe this is enough, at least for now. 

Bucky tells Steve about the college he’d gone to, a couple states over. He tells him about his baseball career, its glorious rise and disappointingly swift end. He tells him about his Ma and his dad and their very different states of retirement, about Becca and his niece and nephew. 

In turn Steve tells Bucky about the high school he went to in the city, about the art teacher who’d taken him under her wing and how she’d helped get him into a program at the university to pursue it. He tells Bucky about how he met Natasha in the student union his sophomore year, and when they’d adopted Sam during an intersession writing course the next year. 

He tells him plenty, but Bucky can’t help thinking that there are things he’s not saying, too. He senses gaps in Steve’s history, in the quiet moments where he hesitates before hurrying on to say something else to fill the space between them—but not, Bucky thinks, with whatever it was that had been lingering there waiting to be said. 

The worst day is when Bucky asks after Sarah. Steve’s face falls at once, and Bucky immediately knows he’s taken a misstep, off the path of the topics Steve is ready to talk about and into that murky unknown territory marked “off limits.” 

“She’s gone,” he says, the words clipped. “Couple years ago.” 

“I’m so sorry, Steve, I had no idea—” 

Steve shakes his head, like he’s shaking Bucky’s words physically off of him, his hand coming in a fist to his chest in that motion Bucky had noticed on one of those early meetings. He’s come to learn that the gesture is a kind of defense mechanism for Steve, a ward against feelings he doesn’t want to encounter. 

Steve had quickly changed the subject, before Bucky could offer any more of an apology. Bucky felt bad about it for several days, even when they’d returned to lighter topics. Steve didn’t seem to hold it against him, but Bucky held it against himself, as a reminder not to pry beyond what Steve wants to offer him. 

He frets his way through the intervening weekends, no matter how much he commands himself not to. But what he sees of Steve is so little anyway, just a few passing moments each day, that going for two without any contact at all makes him feel…dehydrated. Like a man in a desert with just enough water to sustain him, so that it’s aggravating to go without the few sips he’s come to look forward to each afternoon. 

September passes into October, bringing with it the slight edge of chill in the air of summer finally giving way to autumn. 

He wonders if Steve will be able to keep up his routine place outdoors once it gets truly cold. He wonders also if Steve will warn him when he decides that it’s not worth it anymore, or if he’ll just disappear inside like anyone else on the block would. It’s not like anyone really has to give their mailman notice that they won’t be there to receive their letters in person. 

So he is unsurprised, if deeply disappointed in a hollow sort of way, when he approaches the Rogers’ house on a clear, crisp mid-October Monday and sees Steve’s usual seat vacant. 

He hovers briefly at the door—but there’s nothing to do about it. He leaves the mail in the box, and continues his route feeling more low than he can really justify. 

Bucky gives himself a stern talking-to that night about managing his expectations. He has plenty of friends he sees maybe only once every handful of weeks without getting so down about it, and those are friends who are just as interested in seeing him—not a captive audience he only comes by thanks to a fixed location. 

In fact, Bucky decides, it’s probably time he catches up with some of them that he’s neglected lately. He shoots a text to one he knows is probably available, and they agree to grab dinner downtown. 

It’s fine. It’s a buddy he’s known since high school, and they’ve always gotten on. They have a decently enjoyable meal together. 

Bucky comes home pleasantly buzzing with the two beers he had with his burger, and tells himself that it was exactly what he needed to cheer himself up. 

But after he’s climbed into bed and turned off the light, he checks the weather forecast and wonders when he’ll run into Steve again. 

Two more days pass with an empty porch. It’s enough time for Bucky to tell himself the spell is broken, he’s not going to be disappointed again when it continues to happen. It was fun, for a couple of weeks, to be seeing Steve regularly. But that was clearly a limited run before Steve had settled in, before the weather turned. And that’s fine, it is what it is. 

But on Thursday as he turns away from the Young’s front walk, he can’t tamp down the soaring sensation in his chest when he realizes Steve is there, no matter what he’d told himself about his new, realistic expectations. 

He just manages not to bound like an overeager puppy up the path, making himself gather Steve’s mail from his bag first as he approaches the front of the house. 

“You’re back!” Pops out of his mouth, utterly unbidden as his shoes hit the first step. 

Steve smiles at him from his chair, and gives a small nod. 

Bucky pulls up short, handful of letters half-outstretched as he peers at Steve. He’s slumped a little in the chair, with a scarf wrapped high around his throat and a blanket across his lap. He has his sketchbook with him as usual, but it’s sitting closed on top of his legs, and his hand rests on the top of it wearily. Bucky also thinks he looks pale—much paler than usual. There are dark, bruised looking circles under his eyes. 

“Are you okay?” Bucky asks, his voice full of unvarnished concern, before he can consider what he wants to say. But Steve’s appearance has startled him enough that he couldn’t not ask. 

Steve waves his hand, brushing the question aside. “Fine,” he says. “What did I miss? Anything good?” 

Bucky hesitates, a little confused at the forceful change in topic even as he notices more tired lines around Steve’s mouth and eyes than are generally visible. Bucky realizes Steve isn’t wearing his glasses today either, making his wan face look even thinner, cheekbones sharp under his skin. 

“Oh uh—no, nothing to report. All quiet on the western front,” Bucky says, trying to recalibrate. “Missed seeing you around though,” he adds, despite himself. He hurries to cover what might be too much honesty, “You—you’re better company than Peaches.” 

“Did you?” The question comes with a half-smile, but Steve’s voice is deeply weary even with the pleased expression. “Sorry I couldn’t—wasn’t here.” 

Bucky shrugs. “I’m sure you might on occasion have better things to do than hang around with me.” 

Steve looks down at his hand on the cover of the sketchbook. “Something like that.” He looks back up. “But I missed seeing you too.” 

Bucky wants to ask him again what’s wrong, if he’s alright. But Steve’s signals about that had been as clear as possible. Instead he casts around for something else to say. 

“Getting colder out, huh?” He says. “Probably not as fun working out here in this chill.” 

Steve shrugs one shoulder almost imperceptibly. “I don’t mind it…so much.” 

“Mmm,” Bucky hums in vague agreement. 

“I like your coat,” Steve says, gesturing at Bucky’s blue windbreaker. He has an even heavier parka version for later in the winter when the snow comes, which he likes to put off wearing as far into the season as possible. 

“Thanks,” Bucky says, tugging at the bottom of it self-consciously. “Gotta have all the different layers, y’know. The postal service still takes that ‘snow nor rain nor heat of days’ thing pretty seriously.” 

Steve chuckles, softly. “Yes, very professional.” 

“So you think you’ll…” Bucky starts, “um, think you’ll probably be taking it indoors a lot more now?” 

“Not as much as I can help,” Steve says, eyebrows creasing. “But we’ll see.” 

Bucky swallows. “Okay well—I’ll see you when…when I see you I guess.” 

Bucky hands over the stack of mail, and Steve takes it. To Bucky’s surprise, he reaches up with his free hand, too, and grips Bucky’s wrist for just a moment, giving it a small squeeze. 

“Bucky—thanks,” he says, eyes intent on Bucky’s face. 

Bucky just blinks back at him, mouth slightly parted. “I—you’re welcome, Steve.” 

He’s not sure what he’s welcome for, exactly. But whatever it is, Bucky’s glad he did it. 

Bucky’s heart is at least steeled against the possibility when he sees Steve’s spot empty again the next day. He doesn’t deflate like the first time, but he does sigh a little to himself as he makes for the mailbox. 

His attention perks up though, when he notices a folded sheet of paper clipped to the front of it. 

It’s addressed, in messy, scrawling half-cursive: _Dear Mr. Postman (Bucky)_. 

Bucky shoves Steve’s mail into the box, and unclips the page. It’s just a sheet of sketchbook paper, ripped from its spiral binding and folded into quarters, and he unfolds it carefully. 

He hasn’t had anyone write him a real letter in a long time. The page is cramped with Steve’s writing, the bottom fourth of it filled with a hasty sketch in pen of a fat, happy looking beagle, haloed by peach blossoms that make her look like a saint, or one of Mucha’s seasons. 

_Dear Bucky,_

_I didn’t want to be [there’s a couple of words scribbled out] away again already, and I didn’t want to leave you without any conversation besides the admirable Peaches who, if you believe it, I do actually hear having what sound like pretty animated talks with her owners around breakfast and dinner time almost every day. So it’s nice to hear that I’m still a better conversationalist, but I feel like I could give you a little more of her style enthusiasm about it. I sorta feel like how she sounds when you come around. But I don’t want to overload you with like, sixteen years of catching-up-questions all at once. So I’ll just start with one: Any idea what happened to the fort we built down by the railroad tracks? I wonder if it fell apart or if some other kids inherited all of our hard work._

_Til next time, Steve_

Bucky is grinning broadly at the page as he folds it, delicately, and tucks it into the pocket of his windbreaker. 

He opens the front pocket of his bag, and digs around for anything useful to write on. He could just use the back of the page Steve had used…but he really would prefer to keep it. The drawing of Saint Peaches is too cute to just give back. 

With a sigh, he determines he has no choice and pulls out his pad of Package Notices and a sharpie. There’s not a lot of free space on them, and he ends up using three, writing up against the door frame with the cap between his teeth. 

_Steve,_

_I checked in on it once in high school, and discovered that a rabid gang of junior high girls had taken it over—I’ll be honest, they decked it out WAY cooler than we had it. Brought in a bunch of stumps for chairs and everything, like a legit living room. Wish we could’ve taken notes from them back then. But your treehouse was always the best place anyway—is it still there?_

_Bucky_

Bucky sticks the edges of the three notes together with careful precision, and slides them in on top of the other mail in the box.

When he gets home that night, he unfolds the letter again, refolding it so that the drawing of Peaches is on the outside, and pins it to his otherwise mostly bare fridge with a magnet. 

Before he goes to bed, he rummages through his desk drawer for a real notepad and pen, tucking it beside his sneakers next to his front door to be sure not to forget it when he leaves the next morning.


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Bucky hesitates, and then releases Steve’s hand to reach into his pocket, pulling out the post-it and pushing it toward Steve, his face going hot._
> 
> _“My number is on there if you ever—I dunno, if you need it.” He says, shoving his hands into the pocket of his hoodie._
> 
> _Steve smooths out the post-it, nodding, and turns to pin it up front and center on the refrigerator door, between a bright postcard and a comic strip cut out of the newspaper._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who has commented so far, I'm so thrilled that you are enjoying it!! Y'all are the best :)

It goes like that for a few more days, until it’s become a new kind of routine. Bucky stops feeling too sorry when he sees Steve’s empty chair, and instead looks forward to finding whatever note Steve has left pinned for him to the mailbox. 

Sometimes he has to sit down in Steve’s chair to pen his reply, when he has so much to say that he doesn’t want to write it hunched against the doorframe. 

Steve is strangely much more open in his writing, less reserved than he has been each time they’ve spoken face to face. Maybe it’s because there isn’t the chance for those awkward silences or moments for Bucky to catch him off-guard. He can say just what he wants to, and ask the same freely. He even mentions his mom, once. 

Bucky stares down at the line for a long moment, feeling like he’s been given something precious. 

_It’s nice talking to someone who remembers my mom from back then. I like remembering her like that because of you._

He still doesn’t say how he lost her, or when, but Bucky treasures it, and it makes him feel good and important—it takes the sting out of the memory at how stricken Steve had looked when Bucky mentioned her. Maybe it hadn’t been the world’s biggest blunder after all. 

They exchange notes all the next week, Bucky never seeing a glimpse of evidence that Steve is even there apart from the folded pages left each day. 

On Friday, Steve’s note reveals another thing that he has so far been unwilling to say in person: 

_I hope I’ll get to see you again face-to-face soon. I’ve been under the weather longer than I’d hoped. Sucks being cooped up._

So, Bucky thinks, Steve was ill when he saw him last week. He hadn’t really doubted it, Steve’s face had been so drawn and tired. But he hadn’t had anything to go on since Steve hadn’t seemed to want to admit it, either. Maybe it was just the old Steve Rogers stubbornness coming out in full force—hoping that if he didn’t admit he was sick, he might get over it faster. That seems like something he’d do. 

Bucky broods on it through the end of his route in the dusky violet twilight. 

When he gets back to his car in the USPS parking lot, he exits the driveway and makes a left instead of the usual right turn that would point him toward home, almost without thinking about it. But by the time he pulls into the grocery store lot, he’s got a plan pretty well formulated for what he needs to buy. 

His mom’s vegetable soup is pretty easy to make, and it’s the one thing that’s always been guaranteed to—if not cure what ails him—at least make Bucky feel like he’s on the mend. 

Bucky makes a pot of it hastily, buzzing around his kitchen chopping and stirring with more speed than is probably safe to be handling his kitchen knives. But he wants to get a batch done before it’s too late to drop it off. 

He burns his tongue tasting it before he can cool off a spoonful, but even his injured tastebuds decide it tastes pretty good, and everything is cooked through. Bucky pulls out his biggest Tupperware and dumps as much of the soup as will fit into it, splashing over the sides in a puff of steam that mildly burns his fingertips as well. But injuries aside, he snaps the lid on with a sense of accomplishment. 

He pulls on a hoodie and a pair of jeans, shoving his feet into a pair of tennis shoes as he runs his fingers with some water through his hair. His curls are a little the worse for wear after a day under his hat, but the water helps with the frizz a bit, and uncrumples the parts that have been smashed down against his skull. 

Probably it’ll just be a quick stop to drop it off, if Steve isn’t feeling well enough to be up and about, so it really doesn’t matter much what he wears just to drive by. 

At the last minute, Bucky decides he’d better write a note to go with it, just in case Steve doesn’t come to the door. He wishes (not for the first time, but at least with the best excuse he’s had yet) that he had Steve’s phone number to at least text him that there’s something waiting on the porch. At least it’s cold enough that if it sits overnight the soup will most likely just freeze, not go bad. 

Bucky scribbles a hasty explanation on a post-it, hesitating after he signs his name and caps the pen. He uncaps it again, and adds his phone number at the bottom before he can chicken out. 

The drive to Steve’s isn’t far, just ten minutes or so from Bucky’s apartment building. He keeps one hand on top of the Tupperware in his passenger seat to prevent it from tipping over—he’s not exactly confident it’s a water tight seal if it were to fall. 

Bucky tucks the post-it into his pocket as he pulls up to the curb in front of Steve’s, feeling unaccountably nervous. 

He’s going over his very casual explanation of why he’s here as he rings the doorbell, and smoothes his hair anxiously when he hears footsteps coming toward the door from inside. 

“— _yes_ I will make sure they didn’t forget your extra mushrooms this time, let me _be_ woman! Oh—?” 

Bucky blinks, thrown off balance, at the man in the open doorway. It’s not Steve. Bucky recognizes Sam, the friend who had been helping Steve to move in, who is looking back at him with just as much confusion as Bucky is sure is on his face. But the expression clears quickly, and Sam looks Bucky up and down with curiosity. 

“You’re not the delivery guy,” he says, giving Bucky a winning smile. “Let me guess…Bucky?” 

Bucky gapes for a moment before he collects himself, smiling back with as much confidence as he can muster. 

“Yeah, that’s—I’m Bucky,” he says, reaching out his free hand to shake Sam’s, who returns the gesture amiably. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude I—Steve said he was sick—? So I just—was just going to drop off some soup. For that.” 

Bucky retrieves his hand from Sam’s and rubs the back of his neck, suddenly feeling incredibly foolish. 

But Sam grins broadly, and steps back from the door, gesturing for Bucky to come in. 

“Nah, man you aren’t intruding! We’re just keeping Rogers company, he gets cranky as fuck when he’s stuck inside when he’s having one of his—” 

“ _Sam_!” yells a woman’s voice from inside the house, “the pizza guy doesn’t want your life story, you’re letting all the heat out, tip him and let him go!” 

Sam shakes his head, but smiles, beckoning Bucky again. “Come on in, I know Steve’ll want to say hi.” 

“Oh, it’s okay, I shouldn’t—” Bucky starts, awkwardly. 

But Sam brushes off his refusal by simply turning away, leaving the door ajar and calling ahead into the house, “Guess who’s here?” 

So Bucky has no choice but to step into the living room, shutting the door gingerly behind himself. 

Natasha, the redhead, is bustling around the kitchen, setting up plates and silverware on the counter. But Bucky’s eyes don’t linger on her long, instead searching for Steve, his apologies for crashing their evening together already forming on his tongue. 

“Who?” Comes Steve’s voice from further in the living room. Bucky’s gaze is drawn to him at once—though he’s more of a Steve shaped pile of blankets than a human figure, bundled up on the far end of the sofa at the other side of the room. “Oh! Bucky—what are you—?” 

Bucky gives a small, sheepish wave, still hovering just inside the now shut front door, as Steve fumbles to throw the blanket wrapped around his head and shoulders off himself. 

“Hi, Steve. I um—I just had—made some soup I thought I’d drop off,” he ventures. “Because you weren’t feeling well. Sorry, I didn’t mean to crash your evening.” 

“No! That’s—that’s really nice of you!” Steve says, struggling out of his wrappings, freeing himself of the tangle ungracefully. He’s a little breathless when he manages to extricate himself, face flushed as he crosses to Bucky. “You—are you in a rush?” 

“I—” Bucky hesitates, then admits, “not really.” 

“You should stay! Nat,” Steve says, flapping his long, slender hands toward the woman, who is now leaning against the counter watching their exchange with a secretive kind of smile. “This is Bucky.” 

“Your mailman,” Natasha remarks, and Bucky can’t read her tone. 

“My _friend_ ,” Steve says, frowning at her. Bucky’s chest feels very light at his insistence. 

“Nice to meet you, Bucky, we’ve heard a lot about you—” 

“—and I told Bucky about you guys!” Steve interjects, hastily, giving Bucky a sideways look over his pink cheeks. 

Bucky ducks his head, pleased. If Steve had talked about him—calls him a friend, it can’t all be as one-sided as he had worried. 

“Well we’ve got plenty of food coming,” Sam says, moving around the other end of the counter toward Natasha, and bumping her away with a hip-check so that he can fill his water glass at the sink. “More pizza than me and Nat can eat in a sitting, even if Steve abandons his salad to join us in our debauchery despite—” 

“—my cold,” Steve finishes, turning to Bucky with a fixed smile. “Probably not the best food to recover from a bug but sometimes the uh—heart wants what it wants, you know?” 

Bucky glances between Steve, who is still smiling forcefully, and Sam, who is frowning at him. He’s not sure what just happened. He shrugs it off, and smiles back at Steve, holding out the Tupperware. 

“Well, if your heart decides on pizza or salad tonight, this’ll keep in the fridge for a few days. Or you could freeze it for—for whenever the next time you aren’t feeling well. It’s my mom’s recipe, always makes me feel better.” 

Steve’s forcefully intentional smile softens into something a little more comfortable as he accepts the Tupperware. 

“I think I remember the one, actually,” he says, holding it up to look at the contents swirling inside, “thanks Buck. You didn’t have to do that.” 

“I know,” Bucky agrees. He doesn’t add that he did it because he wanted to—he figures it goes without saying. 

“We were going to watch a movie, if you want to hang out?” Steve says, not looking at him as he carries the container to the kitchen. “Maybe you can break the three-way tie we’ve got going.” 

Bucky hesitates for a last moment of indecision inside of the door. But the invitation seems genuine, not like a pity offer to someone who showed up unwanted out of politeness. So he settles his shoulders, and steps forward into the warmth of the room, and asks with a smile, 

“I’d love to watch a movie. What’s on offer?” 

He’s not sure if he imagines how Steve’s shoulders relax, or the glance that passes between Sam and Natasha over the sink. But he refuses to overthink it—he can do enough of that on his own time. Right now, he thinks he’d better focus on making a good impression on Steve’s friends. After all, he has really no idea what “we’ve heard a lot about you” means, and he’s only got one shot at it. 

“I say _Halloween_ ,” Sam says, walking past Bucky to flop onto the couch. “Because of it being almost Halloween.” 

“And I say _Scrooged_ ,” Steve says, “because I don’t care about Halloween, it’s cold and I want to pretend it’s time for Christmas.” 

“And you?” Bucky asks, turning to Natasha. 

Natasha shrugs, pulling something out of her back pocket which she unfolds to reveal a wine opener. “I say _Matilda_ , because I love it every time of year and I’m not chained to the quickly evaporating concept of seasons like these dorks.” 

“Ooh, _Matlida_!” Bucky laughs, “god I haven’t seen it in years.” He turns to Sam and Steve, who has joined him on the couch. “Sorry boys, I gotta side with her on this one.” 

Sam throws his hands in the air with an exasperated “bah!” and Steve gives Bucky a twisty smile. Bucky wonders suddenly if Steve is remembering how they’d demanded that their mom’s take them to get library cards, the summer they’d watched it together. 

“Guess that settles that,” Steve says, picking up the remote control. “Come get a seat before her highness takes up all the space—she’s like a cat.” 

Natasha snorts eloquently in the kitchen, where she’s pouring two glasses of wine. 

“Want one?” She asks, waving the bottle at Bucky. 

Bucky glances at Steve, remembering what he’d said about how he doesn’t drink. He’s got a couple of friends who stopped, after they’d gone a little too hard and liked it a bit too much in their youth. Some of them it’s not a big deal, but he knows for some people it’s hard to be around it when they’ve quit. But Steve doesn’t seem to have an issue, and Bucky’s sure Sam and Natasha wouldn’t bring it around if he did. So Bucky smiles and nods at Natasha, and turns to kick his shoes off beside the door before padding all the way in. 

“Please,” he says. 

She turns to the cabinet and pulls out a third glass to fill for him, which he accepts happily. 

Bucky is going to sit down in the big arm chair across from the couch, but Steve waves again at him, beckoning him over to sit between him and Sam, and Bucky obeys. 

There’s a brief distraction as the doorbell sounds, and Sam half rises from his slumped position before Nat waves him off, saying “I got it.” 

Bucky settles back into the couch, trying not to look too awkward as he takes a tentative sip of wine. He tries to look around, too, not too conspicuously cataloging the differences he sees in the house since the last time he’d visited as a kid. Steve’s style isn’t anything like his mom’s had been, it’s much more chaotic and colorfully haphazard in his decor choices and the art hanging across the walls—but the house has changed as well, Bucky can see the wear and tear of the years and the renters on the battered floors, the unpatched nail holes in the walls, and the water stains around two of the windows. He wonders if Steve will be wanting to fix it up again, if he’s going to stay. He wonders if he should offer to help.

Beside him, Steve is picking apart his blanket nest and replacing them around himself, though not quite so thoroughly as he’d been shrouded when Bucky arrived. 

Natasha carries the stack of pizza boxes and tied plastic bags into the kitchen, and starts assembling everything onto plates, which Bucky watches with bemused interest. 

“Steve won’t let us just put the boxes on the coffee table and eat with our hands,” Sam says, looking over at Bucky aggrievedly, “if you were wondering, we _have_ tried.” 

“My ma never let us just eat right out of the containers in this house,” Steve says, grumpily, curling his feet under him so that they rest beside Bucky’s leg. “You’re lucky I’m nice and not making us all sit down at the dining table to eat.” 

Bucky cranes his neck, looking into the little nook where the Rogers’ dining set used to be. Instead he finds the space filled with easels of varying sizes, a few filing cabinets, and messy stacks of art supplies. 

“You don’t—um—have a table?” Bucky says. Sam laughs, and Steve throws the remote across Bucky to hit Sam in the stomach with a soft _oof_. 

“Yeah, well” Steve says, with great dignity, “that’s the other reason I don’t insist on it.” 

Bucky laughs softly, and takes another sip of his wine. He’d grown up frequently letting used dishes turn into science experiments on his bedside table or on his desk, but he’d always sort of respected the formality Sarah Rogers had insisted on about food being eaten where it was intended. Not that it stopped them from sneaking it out to the treehouse instead, she’d wash her hands of what they did to messy up the outdoors, she had said. 

Sam is flicking through the menu on the TV as Natasha carries over their plates, somehow managing to bring all four, waitress style, with both hers and Sam’s wineglass in either hand to boot. 

“Come on, help me out,” she says, nudging at Sam with her socked foot, until he abandons the remote and relieves her of two of the plates, handing one to Bucky before taking his wine from her as well. 

She hands the other plate over to Steve, and Bucky notes that unlike the other three plates, Steve’s is mostly salad, with a small half-slice of the veggie pizza off to the side. 

“Trying to be more healthy,” Steve mumbles, when he sees Bucky noticing. 

“Smart,” Bucky says, “I should follow suit one of these days.” 

“Can’t hurt to get some greens,” Steve says, though he stabs at the salad with his fork looking less than pleased, “a salad a day keeps the doctor away—or whatever.” 

Sam snorts at that, and Steve glares at him. 

“Sam,” he says in a warning tone. 

“What?” Sam demands. “I didn’t say anything.” 

“Hmmph.” Steve shoots back. 

“Bring me my Miss Honey, boys,” Natasha interjects, flinging herself into the arm chair. Despite her sprawl, she looks very graceful—very much a cat, just like Steve had said. 

Sam refrains from further comment, and hits play on _Matilda_ as they all dig into their dinner, settling in for some magic. 

Bucky is feeling warm and happy by the time the movie reaches the finale. He’s full of pizza and just enough wine to feel relaxed, slouching against the couch cushions with his arm tucked over Steve’s blanketed feet pressing against his thigh. He’s a little sorry when it ends, and everyone sits up and starts stretching to get up and moving again. He gives Steve’s calf a last, quick squeeze before rising, collecting everyone’s empty plates to take to the kitchen. 

He rinses them in the sink and places them in the dishwasher before wiping down the counter. He also sticks the uneaten Tupperware of soup into the fridge. He doesn’t hear Steve padding up silently behind him, until he says, in a low voice, 

“Thanks again for the soup, Buck. I’m going to eat it straight away tomorrow.” 

Bucky ducks his head, shutting the refrigerator door. “It’s better when my mom makes it herself,” he says, embarrassed, “but I think it tasted pretty good.” 

“I’m sure it’s amazing. It’ll have me on my feet in no time, I bet.” Steve says, with a grin. 

Bucky peers into his face, intently, searching for the signs of illness he’d noticed last week. Steve isn’t as pale, the heater is still running full blast keeping the house warm, so his cheeks are tinged with pink. But he looks thin—maybe thinner than normal, though Bucky isn’t sure he can say what normal is for Steve these days, and he’s always been slight. But there are shadows in his cheeks and under his eyes, even despite his cheerful expression. 

“Yeah I—I hope you feel better, soon,” Bucky says. He takes a deep breath, and shakes his head to clear the sleepiness. “I should…I should go. But thank you—for asking me to stay.” 

Steve reaches out, twisting his hand in the fabric of Bucky’s sweatshirt just below the elbow. “We do movie night just about every Friday. Will you—would you come again?” 

Bucky nods immediately, covering Steve’s hand on his arm for a moment. “I’d love that. Just say the word.” 

He hesitates, and then releases Steve’s hand to reach into his pocket, pulling out the post-it and pushing it toward Steve, his face going hot. 

“My number is on there if you ever—I dunno, if you need it.” He says, shoving his hands into the pocket of his hoodie. 

Steve smooths out the post-it, nodding, and turns to pin it up front and center on the refrigerator door, between a bright postcard and a comic strip cut out of the newspaper. 

Steve walks with Bucky to the front door, and stands beside him as Bucky pulls on his shoes. 

“It was nice to meet you guys,” he calls over to Sam and Natasha, who are bickering quietly at the counter over the divvying up of the leftover pizza. 

They both look up at him and smile, Sam giving him a little wave (which Natasha uses as a chance to snatch an extra slice of the pepperoni for her ziplock bag). 

“See you soon?” Sam asks. 

Bucky glances at Steve, who is looking away. 

“Yeah,” he says, and Steve looks over at him quickly. “Yeah hopefully real soon.” 

Steve reaches for the handle of the front door, placing his other hand on the frame as Bucky steps out onto the porch before turning back to him one more time. Steve’s hand is on the door, and the other palm resting at the center of his chest. 

“Feel better, Steve,” he says, quiet enough just to be for Steve’s ears. 

“Come back soon, Buck,” Steve replies. 

He pauses at his car door, to look back at the light spilling from the windows of the little house. He thinks he can hear a faint strain of Sam’s laughter in the glow of it. He thinks of all the times he’d walked or driven past it, sitting dark and empty without any life to fill it up, and how sorry the sight had always made him. 

Bucky unlocks his car door and climbs in behind the wheel, feeling more contented than he remembers being in a long time.


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sam steps outside, shutting the door very quietly behind him._
> 
> _“What’s on your mind, Barnes?”_
> 
> _“He’s sick again?” Bucky asks, point blank in a low voice. “If he’s so sick that you guys have to be here to take care of him—”_
> 
> _Sam shakes his head. “He wouldn’t thank me for telling you.”_
> 
> _Bucky’s stomach drops. “Sam, please,” he whispers._

After that, it doesn’t matter to Bucky quite so much if Steve is in his place on the porch every single day when he comes by. 

Their friendship expands, and he feels like he doesn’t have to live just on the scraps of those daily interactions—Steve texts him the next day, Saturday, to tell him he loves the soup. And he extends again a standing invitation to join them on Friday night for movie night. 

Of course, it still makes his day to chat with Steve when he’s out front. He’s working on a new painting, this one full of all the blues and grays of the settling autumn. And when he isn’t there, he still leaves Bucky a note. 

The notes grow messier, more free and casual as they supplement the texts and the conversations face to face. But it still seems like the medium in which Steve has the easiest time saying and asking things he can’t seem to bring himself to in person. 

Bucky almost chokes on nothing but air the day he opens Steve’s letter, and reads: 

_I should have asked you when you brought up The Goat—but I didn’t want to make things weird. But are you…when did you come out?_

_I feel like I seemed awkward about it, because of the not going to bars. But it wasn’t the other thing, I didn’t want you to think I was being awkward about that part. I’m bi, just for the record._

And that’s…something. Something Steve wanted him to know apparently. Though it was maybe just to clear himself if Bucky had suspected him of being homophobic. But still. 

Bucky writes back and tells him—about the debate-team-boy in high school, and the lab-partner-turned-boyfriend in college. They’d broken up at graduation, when the guy had gotten a once-in-a-lifetime offer to do research at a lab in California. Bucky had missed him, for a little while, but ultimately wasn’t too distressed that things had come to an end and he could honestly wish him well. 

He doesn’t mention to Steve that both of them had been blonde, gangly if not slight, and whip smart. He doesn’t think Steve would benefit from considering too hard the question of Bucky’s type and where it might have unconsciously developed in his formative years. Bucky isn’t going to look too closely at it at this point, that’s for sure.

Steve writes back with his own story—about how it had taken him until college to figure out he could be interested either way. 

_Fine arts programs, hah_ , Steve wrote, _great for self-discovery._

There’s a lot more Bucky wants to ask about that. But the next day, Steve is there in person, easel and paints arrayed in front of him, and Bucky can’t quite make the hurdle in bringing that topic up right to his face. It feels too precarious, as he realizes—and then scolds himself for realizing—that his interest in it might be significantly more complicated than catching up with the life developments of an old friend. 

“I started ordering stuff for Christmas,” Steve says, dropping his paintbrush with a clatter to accept the mail Bucky holds out. “Guessing this is the season you get a lot more of a workout.” 

Bucky smiles. “A lot of people do their shipping through Fedex these days, and now prime does its own. Big stuff goes out on the truck. But yeah—the bag gets a little heavier this time of year.” 

“Death to Amazon,” Steve remarks, solemnly. 

“You said it,” Bucky agrees. 

There is an increased flow of packages and parcels and big envelopes as they truly enter into November. Bucky likes seeing Christmas cards—sent by those Type A families on it enough to be thinking six weeks ahead—it’s a nice break to be delivering things people actually care about, rather than the usual slew of junk mail. 

He always rings the bell when he drops off a package, even if it’s one that doesn’t need to be signed for—just to give people the chance not to let it sit around on their porch if they happen to be at home. 

It’s second nature enough that he doesn’t think twice, after reading through Steve’s latest letter and penning a hasty reply, to ring Steve’s bell as he stuffs two large envelopes (they feel like they probably contain books) into the mailbox. 

He laughs at himself when he realizes he’s done it, and shakes his head, rearranging the contents of his bag before setting off again. 

He’s about to step off the stoop when he’s surprised by the sound of the door snicking open behind him, and he turns, eyebrows raised. 

It’s a dark-haired woman who Bucky hasn’t met, but recognizes, he thinks, from one of the group photos on Steve’s mantlepiece. 

“Oh—hey!” She says, brightly. “…Bucky?” 

Bucky smiles, once again feeling at a disadvantage about what Steve’s friends seem to know about him. 

“That’s me!” 

“Maria,” the woman says, reaching for a handshake. “I’ve been wanting to meet you—I usually try to make movie night, but I’ve been away for work the past two weeks.” 

“Nice to meet you, Maria,” Bucky says, tugging off his gloves to shake Maria’s hand. 

“Are you just, um—visiting?” Bucky asks, frowning halfway through as he thinks about it. It’s sort of odd for a Tuesday in the middle of the day, isn’t it? But it doesn’t seem like Steve has much of a traditional schedule, so maybe not. 

Maria flicks a glance over her shoulder into the house, pressing her lips together momentarily. “Yeah, just checking in on Steve.” 

The hairs at the back of Bucky’s neck prickle a little. “Is he—sick again?” 

“Again?” Maria asks, distractedly. Then her gaze sharpens back into focus on Bucky and she smiles, shaking her head. “He’s—okay. Just like to stop by when I can, make sure he’s uh—taking care of himself.” 

Bucky stares back at her, unable to shake the sensation that there is something wrong. But Maria’s face gives nothing away. She reaches for the envelopes, and waves with them at Bucky. 

“Nice to meet you, maybe I’ll see you Friday!” 

“Friday—yeah. That’d be great,” Bucky says. 

Maria closes the door with a snap. 

Bucky goes to movie night on Friday. Maria is there, along with Sam and Natasha. She doesn’t mention them meeting. 

They order rice bowls, and Steve prevails in convincing everyone to watch _Scrooged_. Bucky spends the better part of the night shooting him looks, trying to determine if he seems sick, or sicker than he was the week before. He’s not certain. 

That week, Steve is out front almost every day, bundled in sweaters and blankets to within an inch of his life, but in high spirits, so Bucky’s worries abate. Steve invites him to come over after work on Monday, and Bucky agrees. He wonders if it will feel like a big step, hanging out the two of them on their own—but it really isn’t. It’s exactly what Bucky wanted all those days he only got ten minutes at a time. He goes again on Wednesday. 

He attends another movie night. Steve’s friends are starting to feel like his friends, he realizes, teasing Sam mercilessly for siding with Maria to vote in _The Holiday_ , even though he actually loves it. 

Monday, Steve isn’t there. 

Tuesday, he isn’t there either. 

Wednesday, Bucky has another package addressed to Steve. This time, he squares his shoulders before purposefully ringing the bell. 

He’s not sure if he is more alarmed or vindicated in his suspicion when Sam opens the door. 

“Sam,” he says, and Sam’s initial, friendly smile gives way to something more put-upon. 

Sam steps outside, shutting the door very quietly behind him. 

“What’s on your mind, Barnes?” 

“He’s sick again?” Bucky asks, point blank in a low voice. “If he’s so sick that you guys have to be here to take care of him—” 

Sam shakes his head. “He wouldn’t thank me for telling you.” 

Bucky’s stomach drops. “Sam, please,” he whispers. 

Sam looks back at him for a long moment, considering. He takes in a deep breath, and lets it out as a sigh in a puff of icy air. “What time are you off?” 

“I—” Bucky starts in confusion, “I usually finish my route by 5:30, back to the depot by 6. Why?” 

Sam rubs at the bridge of his nose, forehead furrowed. But when he looks up, his jaw is set determinedly. 

“Let’s get a drink. 6:30.” Sam says. “Take me to that gay Goat bar Steve won’t shut the fuck up about you liking.” 

Bucky stares at him, nonplussed, then shakes himself. “Yeah, okay. It’s at Third and Main.” 

Sam nods, looking somber, and says, “See you there.” 

Bucky feels like a dark cloud is hovering over him as he hurries through the rest of his route, cramming envelopes into mail boxes and fairly tripping over himself to get from house to house as quickly as he can. 

He’s _known_ there was something—something Steve wasn’t telling him. And he has to think from Sam’s reluctance and his expression that it’s not something good. But there his imagination fails him. He tries to think of the possibilities, but he keeps coming up against dead ends—or rather, avenues that he absolutely refuses to pursue to the end. 

He drops his truck at the depot, and pulls on his spare change of clothes in the chilly locker room, shoving his uniform into his gym bag to take home. 

Even though it’s only 6:17 when he pulls up to the street in front of The Goat, Sam is already standing in the front, leaning against the railing and scrolling on his phone. 

Sam takes one look at Bucky’s face, which Bucky realizes must look truly terrible, and his own expression relents, and he laughs softly. 

“Come on,” he says, slinging an arm around Bucky’s shoulders solidly, “let me buy you a drink.” 

They order hot toddies—a Goat staple in the winter months—and settle into a booth in one of the back corners. The place is mostly empty at this time of night on a Wednesday, but Bucky still appreciates sitting far from any prying eyes for whatever Sam has to say. 

Sam takes a sip of his toddy and lets out a whistle of appreciation. “Shit that’s good, warm a body _up_ ,” he says. 

“Sam…” Bucky prompts, twisting his hands around the warm glass of his own toddy, but not bringing himself to drink any. 

Sam raises his hand to stop him, giving another sigh. 

“Okay,” he says. “Listen, I can’t tell you everything. Steve wouldn’t want me to and it would be shitty to go behind his back like that when it’s his to tell.” He pauses, jaw working as he gazes back at Bucky. “But I like you, Barnes. And I _know_ Steve likes you—which is why he’s being all cagey. He has this thing about people looking at him different.” Sam shakes his head. “But I think you should probably know.” 

“Know what?” Bucky says, barely audible. His hands feel very cold, despite being clutched around the heat of the mug. He clears his throat and tries again. “Know what?” 

“Steve’s been pretty sick,” Sam says, plunging forward like he’ll change his mind if he doesn’t get it out all at once. “The kind that doesn’t get better on its own, no matter how much salad you eat. He’s gonna need a lot more than that to get better.” 

“And he—you guys are helping him get it? That’s why you have to check up on him?” 

Sam’s face twists, looking desperately unhappy. “It’s not that kind of help—gotten too bad for that. But he doesn’t—” Sam cuts himself off, shaking his head. “That’s probably part of what he wouldn’t like me telling you.” 

“Can you tell me what—what’s wrong with him? His immune system, or…?” 

Sam gives another little shake of his head. “I’m sorry, Bucky, I just don’t know what to say besides you should ask him. Ask him straight out so that he can’t avoid it. He’ll tell you, if you make him.” 

Bucky gives a small, pained sound. Both of his hands come up to run anxiously through his hair, tugging gently at the back of it. “Sam— _please_ —I’m imagining all the worst things you _can_ imagine, you gotta give me something here so I don’t lose it, please—” 

Sam looks back at him for a long, measuring moment. Then he takes a deep pull from his toddy, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he sets it down, nearly empty, with a thunk on the wooden table top. 

“Steve worked at an art gallery in the city,” Sam says, peering down into his toddy glass. “Did he tell you that?” 

Bucky wracks his memory, trying to think if Steve mentioned it, he thinks he might have, once…

“Yeah? Not super recent, right?” 

Sam nods, and holds Bucky’s eye meaningfully. “He stopped about two years ago. Had to take care of some family things. Had to take longer than he expected—there wasn’t a place for him any more when it was all done.” 

_Sarah_ , Bucky thinks, _he had to take time off to take care of Sarah_. He tries to understand what else it is Sam is hinting at. 

“And then?” 

Sam shrugs, “Then he’d been away from certain…benefits of regular work, and it was hard to look for any in his condition.” Sam says the word condition with careful emphasis. “His stamina isn’t so good these days for being on his feet running around doing the kind of stuff he’d done before. He picked up a couple of things, but they never went full time, and after about a year it was too expensive to keep living in the city on a part time gig.” 

Bucky turns this over in his mind. Sam’s eyebrows are doing funny things, and Bucky understands that he’s willing him to read between the lines, to get what he’s saying without him having to spill the specific details that Steve has made him promise he’d keep to himself. 

Steve had quit his job, he’d had a hard time getting another…Bucky grasps for it… _certain benefits of regular work_. 

Bucky’s head darts up. “Steve has no health insurance?” 

Sam’s face floods with relief, and though he keeps his mouth shut he gestures broadly with both palms at Bucky, confirming the guess. 

“And it’s bad, his condition I mean? Expensive?” 

Sam raises his eyebrows and takes a final gulp of his toddy, looking for all purposes like a perfect replica of Kermit the Frog and his Lipton tea. 

“He’s proud, Bucky,” Sam says, as he sets down his empty glass. “And stubborn as hell. But he needs to do something, he can’t keep pretending it isn’t there or that it’ll hold off until later. Maybe you’re the one who can finally convince him of it. That’s why I’m telling you—I really, really think you should try. God knows we all have.” 

Bucky drops his head into his palms, scrubbing them down his face as he processes. He feels, alarmingly, like he might start to cry. He scrunches his nose and commands his eyes to cool it. 

Bucky looks back up at Sam. “I just—I _just_ got him back,” he says, fully aware of the bare emotion in his voice, but unable to keep any of it back, even if it lays his cards plainly on the table for Sam to see. 

Sam watches him, knowingly, and nods slowly. “Yeah.” 

“He doesn’t—there’s things he doesn’t want to tell me, yet. It hasn’t been very long and we’re just—I don’t want to push him away by forcing him to talk.” 

Sam nods again. “I get that. I really do—he can be a tough nut to crack. But…” he trails off with a pained expression, and closes his eyes tightly for a moment. “But it might be better than losing him some other way, at least to try.” 

Bucky feels like a bucket of icy water has been dropped down the back of his shirt. Surely it’s not—it’s _bad_ , obviously, but not—not like _that_? 

Sam heaves a long breath. “I gotta go. Told him I was just gonna swing by the grocery store, so I should probably do that.” He climbs out of the booth, and shrugs on his coat. Bucky doesn’t move, still staring unseeingly at his undrunk toddy. Sam pauses beside the table, and raps his knuckles on the wooden top. 

“Ask him, Barnes. I think he’ll come clean. Think he might even be relieved.” 

And with that, Sam leaves Bucky alone with his rapidly cooling drink, and his thoughts quickly devolving into a low thrum of fear. 

Bucky leaves his toddy untouched on the table, and drives home in a fog of worry. 

He makes himself a cup of tea, which sits cooling the same way the toddy had beside him as he stares at his cell phone in front of him on the counter. 

After enough time for the tea to go room-temperature, he picks up the phone, and starts a new text to Steve. 

_You around tomorrow night?_

He practically holds his breath as soon as he presses send. But he doesn’t have to wait long, the phone quickly buzzes toward him. 

_Yep_

_What’s up?_

_Wanna come hang?_

Bucky rubs at the crease between his eyebrows. It’s hard not to feel like he’s planning an ambush here, and even harder that Steve is so—he’s gotten so—it’s just finally gotten easy between them. Bucky doesn’t have to second guess if Steve really wants him around, and Steve hasn’t been so reserved either. Bucky doesn’t want it to end. 

He sighs, and writes: 

_Yeah, I’ll bring dinner. Be there around 7._

He reads the text over, and changes the first period to an exclamation mark and the second one to a double question. 

_Yeah, I’ll bring dinner! Be there around 7??_

That reads better, more normal for his accustomed level of enthusiasm. Even if he feels like he’s luring Steve into a trap, he doesn’t want Steve to be worried about it all day—ending a text with a period is code for “we need to talk” and it’ll just be better if this happens with less pressure than that. Whatever it is that needs to happen. 

Bucky spends a long, relatively sleepless night considering what exactly that might be—and what he could do about any of the varied, worrying possibilities.


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“There,” Steve says, a little hushed. “This is better, right?”_
> 
> _Bucky nods, his throat tight._
> 
> _“Talk to me, Buck,” Steve prompts, gently._
> 
> _Bucky takes one more long look at Steve’s face, the expression full of care and concern for whatever imagined hurt he thinks Bucky must be suffering from, inviting him to share it. Then he takes a deep breath, and takes the plunge._
> 
> _“Steve, you’re sick. Aren’t you?”_
> 
> Or, a chapter alternately titled: Bucky Gets a Bright Idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EEEEEP insert "liz lemon things are happening.gif" here!! 
> 
> Okay from this point on, disclaimer I am not a doctor, yada yada etc. All information on Steve's condition, prognosis, and treatment are from the Mayo Clinic so if you have an issue please take it up with [them](https://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/hypertrophic-cardiomyopathy/diagnosis-treatment/drc-20350204). 
> 
> REALLY excited to hear what you guys think of this development ;)

Steve is on the porch the next day when Bucky comes around on his route, and for the very first time since that very first day, Bucky almost brings himself to wish he weren’t. He’s focusing so much of his energy gearing up for whatever blunt, impossible conversation they have to have tonight that he’s got barely anything left to make an attempt at small talk today. 

He can feel Steve looking at him bemusedly as he has to ask “what?” a third time to something Steve has said to him. 

Bucky manages a smile at least, and a “see you tonight,” before he makes his retreat. But he can feel Steve’s curious eyes on him even as he refuses to look back. 

Bucky stops by the grocery store after work, and picks up hot sandwiches from the deli counter and salads for both of them. He personally has no appetite, but he did promise Steve dinner as the pretense for this talk—though he hasn’t needed much of a reason recently so he’s definitely overthinking it. 

He wavers at the front door, hand hovering over the bell. 

He hears the lock slide back before he can gin up the courage to ring, and Steve opens it, beaming. 

“Hey, come in! I heard you drive up,” he says, by way of explanation. 

Bucky follows after him into the house, shutting the door behind him with his heel. Steve goes straight for the kitchen and starts getting out plates and cups, and Bucky sets the bag of food on the counter, watching him worriedly. 

“I don’t have anything to drink really, sorry I should’ve warned…” Steve says, turning with a glass in his hand. He trails off as he catches sight of Bucky’s face, his own eyebrows pulling together in concern. “Bucky…?” 

Bucky, to his horror, feels two fat, hot tears well up, too fast to stop them as they tumble down over his cheeks. He brushes them away with a noise of frustration, turning his head away from Steve’s eye line. 

“Oh!” Steve says in surprise, take a quick step forward and dropping the glass on the counter. “Hey, what’s this?” 

Bucky shakes his head, blinking rapidly and looking skyward to try to head the rest of the outburst off at the pass. Steve takes another tentative step forward, and Bucky takes in a few deep breaths. 

“Hey, it’s okay, Buck…” Steve says, closing the last distance between them and wrapping his arms around Bucky’s waist in a tight, comforting hug. “It’s okay,” he hums, soothingly. 

Bucky can’t help himself but to close his arms around Steve’s back, and to press his cheek against Steve’s fine, silky hair as he tries to get himself together. And it isn’t lost on him, the fact that Steve is comforting _him_ , when Bucky doesn’t even know—when it’s Steve who needs—something—and it’s just so dumb, he’s so—

“ _Stupid_ ,” Bucky rasps, “I’m sorry, this is so stupid I’m being—” 

“No, shhh,” Steve says squeezing more firmly around Bucky’s waist, “you’re not stupid.” 

Bucky makes an indistinct noise in his throat, and Steve pulls back, peering up at him. Bucky wipes the back of his hand across his hot cheeks again, and mercifully the rest of his potential tears remain in place for the time being. 

“You wanna—talk?” Steve asks, hesitantly. 

“Ye-ah,” Bucky says, dropping his eyes to the floor. “But I don’t—it—” 

Steve reaches out again, and squeezes Bucky’s shoulder. “Okay. Okay—I have an idea. C’mere.” 

Steve turns and marches to the hall closet, yanking open the door, kicking aside a few things that tumble out onto the floor. Bucky drifts behind Steve as he digs through the disorganized clutter inside, not sure what’s happening right now. 

Steve comes up with a “hah!” of triumph, and tosses a flashlight to Bucky, testing a small camping lantern in his own hands. 

“Get a blanket,” Steve says, crossing in front of him to the other side of the living room, and slinging one around his shoulders. He raises his eyebrows when Bucky doesn’t move right away, so Bucky sighs and does as he’s told, choosing one of Steve’s many throw blankets to settle around his shoulders like a cape. 

“This way,” Steve says, heading off deeper into the house. Bucky follows him. 

He doesn’t stop at any of the doors off the hall, but leads them straight through to the dark back office, at which point Bucky has a glimmer of understanding where they might be headed. When Steve opens the back door of the house out into the yard, Bucky is right on his heels. 

Steve leads him clear across the long, unkempt grass of the lawn, into the trees ringing the outer edges of the yard. He stops in front of a sycamore that Bucky knows well, casting his lantern around with purpose. 

“Here,” Bucky says, directing his flashlight beam to the wooden planks, still nailed to the south side of the tree after all this time. Steve nods at him, and hitches his blanket higher around his shoulders, and hooks the little lantern onto the beltloop of his pants. 

“Steve, you’re not—do you even know if it’s—?” Bucky tries to protest. But Steve merely shakes his head, already two rungs up the makeshift ladder toward the empty treehouse. 

Bucky sighs and sticks the flashlight into the pocket of his hoodie before clambering up after him—sending a prayer to anything that might be listening that the old treehouse isn’t rotted through and about to dump both of them an unpleasant distance onto the cold ground. 

Steve is settling himself in the far corner as Bucky hauls his body over the edge of it. He elects to remain on his hands and knees, which seems safer, somehow, for his weight distribution than getting to his feet. But the treehouse, despite having some spiderwebs clinging in the upper corners, seems to have borne the time remarkably well. Bucky crawls over and sits across from Steve, both of their backs to the faded, blue-painted walls. 

So many afternoons, he thinks, as he settles into a cross-legged seat, so many afternoons and evenings and bright Saturday mornings had seen them in this treehouse, once upon a time. It had been a place where he and Steve had spent a lot of hours imagining adventures and quests and battles and how bravely they’d face them if they got the chance. This wasn’t ever one of the scenarios, but still, Bucky tries to harness some of the lingering ghosts of that bravery and surety now.

Steve sets the little lantern to the side, so that it illuminates the space, casting both of their hulking shadows around the interior. He pulls his blanket tighter around his shoulders and folds his legs underneath him, and Bucky unconsciously mirrors the action. 

“There,” Steve says, a little hushed. “This is better, right?”

Bucky nods, his throat tight. 

“Talk to me, Buck,” Steve prompts, gently. 

Bucky takes one more long look at Steve’s face, the expression full of care and concern for whatever imagined hurt he thinks Bucky must be suffering from, inviting him to share it. Then he takes a deep breath, and takes the plunge. 

“Steve, you’re sick. Aren’t you?” 

Steve balks at once, sitting back from where he’d been leaning across toward Bucky, face darkening. 

“Did someone say something?” 

“I have _eyes_ Steve,” Bucky starts, frustrated, “and I’m not stupid. Or not that stupid. I know you haven’t been getting around very much and—” Bucky hesitates. He doesn’t want to get Sam in trouble, but he feels his conscience pricking him that Steve should know at least as much as he’s aware of. “I asked Sam.” 

Steve’s mouth drops open angrily to say something, but Bucky hurries on before he can interject. 

“He told me you wouldn’t want him to tell me about it, and that I should ask you. But he didn’t say I was wrong.” That’s more or less the gist of it, enough to feel like he’s not lying anyway. 

Steve fairly squirms in his seat, avoiding Bucky’s eye. Bucky wonders if he’s not unhappy with his decision to do this in a small, dark space with only one exit, now. 

“Please Steve,” Bucky says, trying not to sound like he’s pleading even though he absolutely is. “Please just—just tell me. I’m your _friend_ , I want to know.” 

Steve’s shoulders sag against the wood of the treehouse, the anger leaving his face. He looks…tired. He takes off his glasses, rubbing at the bridge of his nose for a moment. Then he replaces them, and looks up to meet Bucky’s eyes, resigned. 

“You remember—when my dad died?” 

Bucky for a moment doesn’t follow the abrupt introduction of this new topic, but then he nods. 

“It was sudden—a heart attack.” Steve says. “And then we moved.” 

“I remember,” Bucky whispers. 

Steve twists his hands in the edges of his blanket, dropping his eyes to the lantern. When he continues, his voice is curiously dull and flat. 

“It turned out he had a heart condition that never got diagnosed. A lot of people don’t know they have it til it’s too late. But it’s…” he trails off, then shakes himself, looking back up at Bucky. “It’s genetic. I got tested after that, and it turns out I have it too.” 

“Your heart?” Bucky asks, breathless. Joseph Rogers had died out of the blue one afternoon at the age of forty-one. It isn’t an encouraging start to whatever Steve has to say. 

Steve nods. “It’s this thing where—it’s complicated.” He waves his hand, dismissing it. “Some people never realize they have it, or don’t have symptoms, or don’t have any symptoms until they just—die. But once we realized I had it too, my mom moved us to the city so it was easier to get treatment for it, keep it from being that kind of a problem.”

Bucky takes this in, eyes wide. “But now…?” 

Steve shrugs. “Now it’s a problem. I take…some meds for it. But they’ve been—it’s been a little harder to keep up with them.” 

Bucky sucks in a sharp breath. “Because of insurance?” 

Steve shoots him a narrowed glance. “Sam ‘hint’ at that too?” 

Bucky feels himself blushing, but nods, and Steve lets out an irritated sort of growl in his throat. 

“Yeah. I had to—I needed to take care of my mom. And then after it wasn’t—it hasn’t been easy. It’s harder to afford anything on your own, especially when you have an expensive pre-existing condition.” 

Bucky shakes his head in disbelief. “So you haven’t—you just haven’t been able to get it treated in like, two years?” 

Steve shrugs again, and it’s enough to send a little spark of anger flaring through Bucky’s misery—Steve’s seeming indifference to his own health and survival. 

“It probably means surgery at this point, Buck,” Steve says, evenly, not taking his eyes off Bucky. “It’s not as easy as just ‘getting it fixed.’ I’ll be okay, for a while—just til I figure out something—” 

“No,” Bucky says, emphatically. Steve stops talking, mouth open in surprise. Bucky shakes his head. “Nope—that’s crazy Steve. You can’t just—you can’t just wait it out.” 

Steve’s jaw juts out, face going hard and stubborn. “What do you suggest? I don’t have a hundred or two hundred grand laying around.” 

Bucky’s breath is coming shallowly as he stares at Steve’s thin, pale face—somehow so strong even with the illness Bucky now thinks he can see in every shadow. He opens his mouth, and shuts it again, thinking almost too fast to catch every thought flying through him. 

There’s something, the beginning of an idea that started to form in his mind after he left The Goat last night. It’s not clear yet, he hasn’t had time to really think it through…

“Marry me,” he says, the words flying out to land in the shadowy space between them. 

Steve gapes, for once speechless. Bucky gapes back too, shocking even himself for a moment. 

But then he stumbles on, eagerly, “No, listen, I’m serious—we can get married. I have great insurance, we could—you could—” 

“Bucky,” Steve says, sternly. “No. I’m not going to drag you into insurance fraud, come on. It’s wrong.”

Bucky lets out a strangled noise, and darts a hand out to grab one of Steve’s, gripping it hard to make Steve hear him. _He’s proud_ , Sam had said, and Bucky knows he’s right. Bucky’s got to sell this in a way that Steve will buy it without feeling like he’s lost his dignity or his morals. Bucky certainly doesn’t care about either, if Steve’s life is on the line. But they have always been very different people, and it’s Steve who has to be persuaded. 

“There’s no _fraud_ if we’re really married,” he says, warming to the subject. “I mean, plenty of people who hate each other are married and share insurance because they can’t be bothered to split up right? So we’re friends—” 

Steve opens his mouth again, and Bucky raises his voice to head off another round of protests. 

“And _anyway_ , you wouldn’t be in this situation if our government and our healthcare weren’t so fucked in this country, right?” Steve frowns, but Bucky can see just a glimmer of hope, and he senses this is the right tack. “Yeah! It’s fucked up, and what better justice is there than getting my government benefits to pay for their own sins, huh? It’s—it’s poetic justice!” 

“Bucky, no,” Steve says, but his voice has softened, and it’s not as full of steel as it had been a few moments ago. He presses his palm against Bucky’s, and the other comes up in that now familiar way to the center of his chest—and Bucky realizes that the gesture isn’t benign or unconscious at all, and it fills him with fear. But it fills him with renewed resolve too. 

“Steve, _yes_.” Bucky says. “What’s your condition called?” 

“I—” Steve looks a little dazed, “hypertrophic cardiomyopathy.” 

The words don’t mean anything to Bucky besides sounding scary, but he makes a mental note to find out everything he can about it the second he gets home tonight. He nods. 

“And it can’t wait. You said it can’t wait—it’s already gone too long, if you need surgery—if your medications aren’t cutting it, right?” 

“I…yeah,” Steve says, faintly. 

“So let me do this, let me help you! My benefits are just sitting there, what else are they good for?” 

“But Bucky—getting _married_ , just for this? I can’t ask you to—” 

“You _didn’t_. I’m offering. _I’m_ asking, Steve, please do this for me. You didn’t come back here after all this time to—for this to be—just,” Bucky says, with a small sigh, “say you’ll marry me, so that we can keep being friends. Okay?” 

“This…this is crazy,” Steve says. But there’s a look of dawning wonder and hope on his face too, and Bucky feels exultant. This is going to work, he can tell. 

“Letting your heart _fail_ is crazy, Steve, if there’s an option for it not to.” 

Steve drops his hand from his chest, bringing it down to wrap around Bucky’s clutching his other one. “Is this—are you a hundred percent certain, Buck? That we can do this? That you won’t get in trouble?” 

Bucky scoffs, and grips Steve’s cold fingers harder. “We’re _gonna_ do this. We’ll go to the courthouse, all on the level. Any insurance investigators come around asking questions I’ll—” he pauses, a slow smile spreading over his face, “I’ll tell ’em all about how we met on the playground at Warren G. Harding. And how you came back when I never thought I’d see you again.” He adds with a weak laugh, “I’ll turn on the waterworks too—you’ve seen it, now, you know I can.” 

Steve laughs too, but his eyes are overly bright looking back at Bucky, and he blinks hard several times. 

“Let’s get married, Steve Rogers.” Bucky says, gently. “Make me the most relieved friend in the world and say yes.” 

Steve snorts, but there isn’t any resistance left in it. 

“Okay,” he says, then firmer, “Okay. Yes. I’ll marry you.” 

Bucky laughs, unable to tamp down the relief fizzing up in his veins, and tips forward onto his knees, pulling Steve into a crushing hug. 

“Thank you, god—thank you,” he mumbles into Steve’s hair. 

Steve hugs him back for a moment, and then pushes him lightly away, his mouth twisted into a wry smile. 

“I’m the one who needs to be thanking _you_ , idiot,” he says. “Looks like I’d better start practicing, since I think I’ll be doing it for a long, long time to come.” His smile fades. “I don’t know how I’ll ever pay you back for this, Bucky.” 

Bucky shakes his head, placing his hands heavily on Steve’s shoulders. “You don’t, that’s how. Easy.” 

Steve huffs, a humorless sound. “Easy. You got it.” 

Steve shivers, pulling his hands free of Bucky’s to tug his blanket tighter around his shoulders. 

“We should go in,” Bucky says. 

“Yeah,” Steve agrees in a low voice. He casts a reluctant glance around the treehouse. “This thing held up pretty well, though.” 

Bucky smiles, and looks around too. “Maybe we should try this again—in the spring when it warms up.” 

Steve smiles and nods, but it’s a little sad around the edges. It makes Bucky determined that they _will_. They’ll _both_ be here in the spring, to do this together again and talk about happier things, all the books they’d read and adventures they’d imagined sitting in this treehouse once upon a time. 

Bucky backs out of the doorway first, dropping the last couple of feet to the ground rather than tempt fate on the dubious ladder again. 

Steve follows him a little more slowly, and Bucky can see that his breath is coming faster than it should when he turns to walk across the dewy lawn—his palm once again pressing hard at the center of his chest.

Bucky lets Steve walk in front of him, anxiously preparing to catch him if he falls. He does seem to sway a little bit at the sliding door, pausing with his head down just a fraction longer than he needs to get a grip on the handle. But he rights himself quickly, and makes his way back through the house. 

He drops at once onto the sofa in the living room, not looking at Bucky, and Bucky can tell that he’s trying not to let him see just how out of breath he is. 

Bucky goes to the kitchen and fills up a glass of water—it seems like the thing to do, even if it’s not really that helpful. 

“Steve,” he says, softly, handing it to him as he comes around the coffee table. 

Steve pushes himself up from his slump with a mulish expression, though he accepts the water. 

“I’m fine,” he says, firmly. “Just gotta catch my breath.” 

Bucky sits next to him, and places an anchoring hand on his shoulder. Whatever else they’ve agreed to tonight, Steve had finally dropped the barrier between them touching one another with his hug, and Bucky—who is fairly tactile by nature—savors the ability to communicate his feelings with more than just his words. 

“You’re going to be fine, soon,” Bucky says. “What are you doing this weekend?” 

Steve raises a wry eyebrow at him. “Just movie night tomorrow. Why, you have something in mind?” 

“I think we should get married, if I can get us an appointment,” Bucky says, keeping his voice remarkably level, despite the thrumming of his heart. 

Steve takes in a quick, shallow little breath, and dips his head for a long gulp of water. “Okay. If you’re sure.” 

Bucky nods, and squeezes his hand on Steve’s shoulder. “I’ll look into it tonight, let you know what I find out.” 

“You’ll still come tomorrow?” Steve asks, voice uncertain as he raises his eyes to Bucky’s. 

Bucky frowns. “Of course—wouldn’t miss it.” He’s confused why Steve would think for some reason this might change anything else about their routine. He hasn’t missed a Friday night with Steve and his friends in weeks. 

Steve sighs. “Okay then—okay.” 

“I’ll text you if I figure it out tonight—let you know what we need.” Bucky says. 

Steve’s breathing has evened out, but his face is carved with deep, tired lines. Bucky feels like he should probably go, let Steve rest. But he isn’t quite ready to abandon him to whatever he’s thinking—or already fretting over—about their decision. 

“What we need…to get married,” Steve says, dryly. 

“Yeah.” 

Steve looks over at him, eyes serious. “Alright Buck. Let me know and I’ll…I’ll be ready.” 

“Good,” Bucky says. 

They hold each other’s gaze quietly for a few long breaths. And suddenly, an image flashes in front of Bucky, an urge, maybe—what it would feel like to lean forward, hand still on Steve’s shoulder, to pull him close and press his mouth to Steve’s. He’s taken aback by the strength of it, all at once, how much he wishes that’s how this conversation were going to end. 

“Bucky—do you…” Steve begins, soft and uncertainly. Bucky holds his breath, waiting for the rest of the question. But Steve smiles tightly instead. “Nevermind, forget it.” 

Bucky waits another moment, but Steve stays quiet, looking down at his hands instead. Bucky blinks a few times and looks away, removing his hand from Steve’s shoulder. 

“I’d better go,” he says, though it’s only the one small corner of his rational brain that agrees, and the rest of him wishes that logical part weren’t such a tyrant over what the rest of him wants right now. 

“Sure,” Steve says, clutching the water glass in his lap with both hands. 

“I’ll...see you tomorrow,” Bucky says, rising from his seat, and jamming his traitorous hands into the front of his sweatshirt. 

“Yeah,” Steve says, voice faint. “See you tomorrow.” 

Bucky walks himself mechanically for the door, feeling like there are so many things left unfinished here that it’s absurd to go. But he can’t think of a single reasonable excuse to stay, either. 

He waves at Steve one more time before shutting the front door behind him. 

Steve just smiles another sad-edged smile from his spot on the couch, looking small and forlorn in the empty room, blanket still trailing from his shoulders.


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“In sickness and in health…”_
> 
> _Bucky feels his throat go suddenly tight, and it takes him a second try to get the words out. Steve’s eyes are wide and keen with understanding as he struggles, and Bucky wishes he could look away from Steve’s steady blue gaze, just for a moment to collect himself._
> 
> _He means it, is the thing._

By the time Bucky crashes into his bed that night, he knows everything there is to know about how to manage a speedy, courthouse wedding in this state. 

He’s worried that there’s the potential that they won’t be able to make it happen this weekend, and he loathes the idea of even a week in delaying the process. He’d looked up how to add a new spouse to his benefits as well, and it’s not particularly hard—but it does take a month to kick in, and that already feels too long. He feels a restless urgency, thinking about Steve’s shallow breathing just from walking across his own back yard and climbing a few ladder rungs. And he also doesn’t entirely trust Steve not to change his mind, however foolish that would be. 

No, they’ve got to get this thing done as soon as possible. 

He decides to call in sick to work on Friday, to give himself a little bit of time to try and make calls and arrangements. He leaves a voicemail for his supervisor sometime around 1 a.m. and is relatively certain he at least _sounds_ as sick as he’s claiming to be, voice hoarse and nose stuffy (because okay, he may have done a little bit more crying after he got home, he couldn’t help it—it was an emotional night). 

Bucky spends the better part of Friday morning making phone calls to the courthouse, getting transferred from desk to desk as he chases down everything he needs to make this thing happen. He’d prepared a whole sob story explanation for the apparent rush—something about a sibling moving unexpectedly out of the country, and wanting to get married before they leave—but it turned out no one cares, or at least, no one asks. Maybe it’s not that unusual that people make the decision and want to get it done right away. 

“You know, if you really want to make this happen this weekend,” says one of the ladies in the permit office, “might be easier just to book a flight to Vegas.” 

“My—fiancé—can’t travel,” Bucky says. He keeps his tone friendly, even though he’s annoyed at the unsolicited and extremely useless bit of advice. The word _fiancé_ feels extremely strange in his mouth. 

“We hold a couple of walk-in slots usually,” she tells him, “but honestly they’re going to fill up fast this weekend—it’s always busy around the holidays.” 

That’s right, Bucky remembers after a moment trying to parse that, it’s Thanksgiving next week. 

“I’ll bear that in mind,” he says.

He ends the call with the unhelpful advice giver. If he and Steve have to show up and wait at the courthouse to be there when the doors open, that’s what he’ll do. But the uncertainty makes him itchy. He makes lunch, waits an hour, and calls again. 

He gets a different woman on the line this time, and starts his spiel. 

She only lets him get about halfway through before she says, “Oh my gosh, honey would you believe that I _just_ took an appointment cancellation before you called? You have good timing, let’s see what time, maybe it’ll work for you—” 

“I— _really_?” Bucky asks, his chest filling with painful relief. “Whatever time, I’ll take it. Can you hold it right now?” 

The lady on the other end of the line chuckles, and he hears the faint sounds of her typing at her keyboard. 

“Okay, it’s at 3pm tomorrow. Can you give me your full name to hold the slot? And I’ll need a deposit for the permit to keep it.” 

“Yes, three is perfect!” Bucky says, fumbling for his wallet, “James Buchanan Barnes. I have my credit card ready when you are.” 

It takes about two minutes, all told, for her to put in his information. Bucky holds his breath the entire time. 

“Alright, Mr. Barnes, we are all set!” 

“Thank you, thank you so much!” Bucky says, a little breathlessly. 

She laughs again, good-naturedly. “We look forward to celebrating with you—remember to bring a photo ID and birth certificate, and your social security card if you have access, it’ll make things go a little faster than finding you in the system.” 

“I will, thank you again.” 

“Thank _you_ , and congratulations on your engagement, and marriage—best of happiness to you both!” 

Bucky hangs up and stares at the phone is his hand for a moment, dumbstruck. 

They’re doing this. Tomorrow he’s _marrying_ Steve Rogers. _What the fuck_. 

Bucky shakes himself and glances at the clock. It’s still a couple of hours before he’s due at Steve’s. It won’t take him long to gather his stuff—all of his official documents are gathered in a tidy file folder in the locked drawer of his desk. 

He feels full to the brim of nervous energy, the kind that he knows will quickly give way to panicked overthinking if he lets it. He jumps up from his seat at his small kitchen table and paces a few laps around his apartment, trying to distract himself with something—anything really. 

Ultimately, he gives it up as a lost cause if he stays sitting around here with his thoughts for the rest of the waning afternoon. So he pulls on a pair of jeans and a jacket, shoves his phone, keys, and wallet into various pockets, and jams his feet into his sneakers beside the door. 

Bucky gets behind the wheel of his car without a really clear idea of where he’s going to go at first, before settling on what he always settles on in the end, when he’s bored and restless and needs to get out of the house for an hour or two in this small town: he drives to Target. 

It’s soothing, wandering the bright white, fluorescent lit aisles with a basket over his arm, dropping things into it at random. Without any windows, there’s no time inside the big box store. How long does he stand looking at yard decorations for Christmas in the outdoor section, despite the fact that he lives in a third story apartment with only a very small balcony? He has no idea. 

Bucky has a vague intention that he’ll buy a bottle of wine, and maybe some snacks to take to movie night tonight. Or at least that’s enough of a justification for the trip to make it feel like it has a purpose other than just spending money to kill time. But he still takes the long way around the outside of the store. He drops a three pack of Clorox wipes into his basket—that’s always useful. He buys a pine scented candle, too—he has room for _that_ much Christmas cheer in his apartment, anyway. 

As he makes his way between the rows of greeting cards—mentally noting that there aren’t really any occasions coming up that he should reasonably be browsing for at the moment—he sees one of the sections which is _not_ on his usual time-wasting route, and stops in his tracks, eyeing it thoughtfully. 

Bucky feels shifty and awkward, sidling up to the glass jewelry cases in the center of the store, though he’s not sure why. It takes him several minutes of pretending to look at sunglasses, and then at watches, before he works his way up to the items he’s actually interested in—letting his eyes alight on the rows of rings like he’s committing a crime. 

He must hover there long enough for someone to notice, because suddenly a red-poloed employee appears in front of him, behind the glass case, a bright smile on her face. 

“Anything you wanted to see?” 

Bucky balks, feeling like he’s been caught in the act of—of something. But reluctantly, he nods. 

“I was—I’m looking for something—erm—plain? I guess?” 

The case is full of gaudy, sparkling things, embellished with crosses and Hello Kitty and cubic zirconia. He hadn’t even _thought_ about—about bands. They don’t technically need them, and Target is probably a stupid place to look for them if he’d thought about doing it on purpose. But it can’t hurt to ask. 

“Men’s or women’s?” The girl asks, cheerfully. God, she’s gotta be like, eighteen. Bucky blushes, hard. 

“Men’s.” 

“Looking for a gold tone, or silver? We’ve got a matte black titanium, I think…”

“Silver,” Bucky says, quickly, not exactly sure where the preference comes from. But it’s not like he can get it wrong, it’s not real. These rings are just a prop. 

She nods, and beckons him around to the adjacent case, unlocking it from the back and sliding out a tray. 

“Were you wanting something, um—casual? Or more expensive? Is it a gift?” 

Bucky hikes his shopping basket higher on his arm, and looks down at the rings. They’re more simple on this side than in the one he was looking at, but many of them still sport sparkling fake diamonds or weird shapes. 

He points to one—it’s a silver color, unembellished except a carved groove around the middle. “What’s this one?” 

“Polished titanium,” the girl replies, promptly, taking it out and offering it to him. “Really durable, and not super expensive. Definitely a classic look.” 

Bucky gives her a sideways smile. He wonders how this teen got so good at her part time Target job that she’s selling him jewelry like a pro—like she’s putting guys in wedding rings all the time between the cleaning supplies and the athleisure. 

“Is it—do you have two?” 

The girl crouches behind the counter to unlock the lower cabinet, pulling out a stack of boxes. 

“Few sizes!” She says, dropping them onto the counter with an impeccable customer-service-smile. 

Bucky heaves a sigh, giving in to this experience and the fact that yeah he’s doing this right now, and sets his basket on the floor to pick up the ring he’d liked initially. 

It slides easily enough over his fourth knuckle, and he examines how it looks on his hand, taking in a slightly unsteady breath. 

“I think…this works,” he says, not looking at the girl as he slips it off. “What size is this?” 

She picks up the box and glances at the barcode on the bottom. “Ten,” she says, “pretty standard.” 

“Do you…also have an—eight? Maybe?” Bucky says. He’s picturing Steve’s long, slender fingers, taking his best guess at the smaller size that might suit him. 

She picks through the boxes, coming up with one after a moment. “Ah, not with the stripe,” she says, looking apologetic. She opens the box and shows him a band that’s otherwise identical, a simple, polished circle of silver metal with the faint traces that make it look brushed. 

“That—that works. I’ll take that one too,” Bucky says, clearing his throat. 

She beams at him. “You want a gift box for either of those?” 

Bucky shakes his head, suddenly very much wanting to be away from here, to hide the rings somewhere and maybe pretend he isn’t stupid enough to feel—whatever he’s feeling about them. 

“As-is is fine,” he says. She girl nods, handing him the two little boxes with another professional smile. “Anything else I can help you with today?” 

“No,” Bucky chokes out, hiding the rings down in the corner of his basket, underneath a package of socks. “Thanks.” 

“Have a good one,” the girl calls after him. He tries not to hunch his shoulders, feeling like there’s a searchlight blaring down on him as he makes his retreat between the rows of bedding and bath towels. 

Bucky remembers, just barely, to stop and pick out a bottle of wine before heading to the registers. He realizes, with a glance at his phone, that somehow with all of the time he needed to kill he ended up absolutely losing track of it, and is now going to be, irritatingly, running _late_ to Steve’s. 

He unloads his basket onto the conveyer belt, sliding the rings in between a couple of taller items. His stomach wrenches nervously when the older lady at the register swipes them through, waiting for her to ask him about them—but she doesn’t. He feels better when they’re settled at the bottom of one of his plastic bags, out of sight. 

Bucky digs them out as soon as he’s sitting in the darkness of his car, doors locked, and shuts the two incriminating boxes into his glove compartment where they’ll wait until tomorrow. 

Tomorrow, Bucky thinks, shaking his head as he turns his key in the ignition. 

He’s getting married _tomorrow_. 

Sam and Maria are both there when Bucky arrives, though Natasha is missing tonight, stuck on some kind of work deadline. There’s a new woman that Bucky hasn’t met before, Wanda, who is pretty and soft spoken. Bucky likes her immediately. 

He sees Sam shooting him questioning looks from the moment he walks in, but between being introduced and delivering the bottle of wine to the kitchen and weighing in on what to order for dinner, there isn’t a moment to shoot any back. 

And anyway, it’s Steve he needs to talk to, at some point without anyone hearing. He doesn’t want to do this over text—he figures maybe he’ll just have to wait everyone out tonight after the movie. 

But Steve also seems to be angling to get him away from the rest, and says loudly, grabbing Bucky’s elbow, “Here, let me show you where the wine opener is,” before steering him around into the temporarily vacant kitchen. 

He puts his back to the living room, head bent over a drawer, ostensibly searching for the corkscrew. 

“I got an appointment,” Bucky says, in a low rush, “tomorrow at 3pm.” 

Steve nods, hastily, and sends a furtive glance over his shoulder at the others gathered around the coffee table. 

“I wanted to—” Steve starts, “I was hoping we could just keep it between us, at least for tonight?” 

“Oh,” Bucky says, also looking over at the others. “Yeah, that’s fine. I won’t say anything.” 

Steve darts a hand out, grasping Bucky’s for a quick squeeze. “I’ll tell them. I just need to figure out—the best way to do it. I don’t think movie night is the right way.” 

Bucky nods. It makes sense, of course. But he still feels a little uncomfortable at Steve’s obvious embarrassment about the situation. 

“Well anyway,” he says, handing the corkscrew back to Steve. It’s a twist-off cap. “Need a photo ID, birth certificate, and social security card if it’s handy—they said that’ll make it go faster than just the number.” 

Steve nods, anxiously. “Got it.” 

“I’ll pick you up at 1? We have to be there early to get the paperwork going.” 

“Yep,” Steve says, in a clipped tone, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Cool,” Bucky says. 

He waits for Steve to say more—but Steve’s eyes just dart to his friends on the other side of the room. Bucky turns away, and starts pouring wine into glasses instead. 

Bucky isn’t surprised that the second Steve vacates the kitchen, Sam makes his way over to stand beside Bucky at the sink, making a show of asking if he can help himself to one of the glasses of wine. 

Sam turns, leaning against the counter, but really putting his back to the rest of the room, just as Steve had, and Bucky suppresses a smile as he takes a sip of his own wine. 

“You guys talked?” Sam asks, quietly. 

“Yep.” 

“Did you—make any headway?” 

“Yep,” Bucky says again, and Sam gives him an annoyed look. 

“ _And_?” He asks. 

Bucky shakes his head, giving a twisted smirk into his wine glass. “You’ll have to ask Steve—I don’t think he wants me telling you.” 

Sam groans, softly, and elbows Bucky in the side. “Yeah _okay_ , you’re right—that’s annoying.” 

Bucky shrugs one shoulder. “But unfortunately true.” 

Sam scoffs again, but because he really does know Steve apparently, he doesn’t press it. “You’re killing me, Barnes.” 

“Gotta ask him, I guess,” Bucky says, before leaving Sam to brood over the kitchen sink alone so that he can claim his usual spot on the sofa beside Steve. 

Bucky tries to outlast everyone following the movie, he really does. Maria is the first to fall, complaining about an early running club meeting the next morning. Wanda drifts out shortly after her. 

He, Steve, and Sam sit on the couch and armchair for another solid hour, chatting about nothing, conducting a series of meaningful glares and raised eyebrows behind each other’s backs the entire time. 

Finally, Steve mentions that Sam was planning to stay over the night. 

“He’s visiting a friend for breakfast up the road tomorrow,” Steve adds, when Bucky gives him an alarmed look. 

Bucky relaxes again, recognizing the reassurance that Sam won’t still be around when they leave to—when Bucky comes to pick Steve up. But he realizes also that it means he won’t be able to outlast Sam tonight, however much he’d wanted the chance to have at least a _little_ more of a conversation with Steve before tomorrow. 

He gets up, reluctantly, and starts collecting his things. 

Steve follows him to the door, and Sam gives him a gloating look from behind Steve’s back that makes Bucky snort softly and shake his head. 

“I’ll see you at 1,” Steve says, as Bucky steps outside. “I’ll have all the papers.” 

Bucky swallows hard, looking at Steve’s soft gold hair haloed by the light from the kitchen. The warmth of the air spilling out of the house still clings to the front of Bucky, standing close enough to feel it, but his back already feels the chill of the night, and he wraps his arms around himself. 

“I—’bye Steve,” He says. 

Then he steps forward again, and sweeps Steve—a little startled—into a quick hug. After a moment, Steve hugs him back. 

Bucky doesn’t know how he’s ever going to sleep tonight. 

He pulls up in front of Steve’s house at ten minutes to 1:00, and finds Steve sitting on his front steps already waiting for him, a manila folder clutched in his hands. 

Steve’s face is pensive, eyes distant as he gazes at a vague point on the sidewalk in front of him, eyebrows drawn together in deep thought. 

He looks nice, Bucky thinks. He hasn’t really seen Steve in anything but his messy painting clothes, or his movie night sweats. But today he’s wearing a pair of trim, black slacks over a shiny pair of dress shoes, and a silvery shirt buttoned up to a dark, skinny tie with some kind of flowers patterned on it. Over the top he’s wearing a sleek grey coat—it makes him look very much like someone who spent the better part of his life living in the city, rather than kicking around this small town. 

Bucky is quietly pleased that Steve had chosen to dress up for this. He’d spent a long time throwing things out of his own closet this morning trying to decide—it’s not like they need to be formal or anything. They could have done this in their usual attire of jeans and hoodies. But it felt wrong, as he’d stood there contemplating it, not to dress up at least a _little_ for their _wedding_ , even if the wedding is just a means to an entirely different end than it would normally be. 

In the end, Bucky had put on a pair of charcoal dress pants and a dark red shirt that Becca had bought for him for the last family wedding they’d attended. Now, as Steve stands up and brushes himself off to make his way over to the car, Bucky’s glad he’d gone with his instincts. The dark colors and the cut of Steve’s coat make him look taller than usual, slim and handsome under the clean lines of it. 

Steve opens the passenger side door and gives Bucky a nervous smile, straightening his glasses on his nose. 

“Hey, Buck,” he says, sliding into the seat. “You ready?” 

“More than,” Bucky says, fixing his eyes on the road, which seems an altogether safer option than continuing to look at Steve. 

His heart is pounding, and the recognition of the sensation makes his stomach twist with guilt on more levels than he has time to process right now. On the one hand, he thinks about how much he takes for granted the way that his heart usually doesn’t give him any reason to think twice about it, pumping steadily and uncomplicatedly as it does its job. On the other, he can’t help but admit that he probably shouldn’t be feeling this kind of soaring anticipation as he drives Steve Rogers to the courthouse on the errand of just being a friend. 

It’s not fair of him to be thinking about what he’d feel right now if this were real. It’s not like Steve had much of a choice, this isn’t about that—about _them_ —for Steve, it’s about survival. The fact that Bucky’s life isn’t on the line here means he shouldn’t get to have other _feelings_ about it, about how Steve has been backed into this corner by necessity. 

Even if a piece of him can’t help but think…maybe if things had been different…would he have found himself in this position, in another year or two or three after Steve Rogers had come back into his life? 

Bucky clamps down on the thought, willing it away to a dark corner of his mind not to be touched on again. That’s not what today is. And letting any glimmer of that get away from him would only make things impossible for Steve, who is already in an impossible position. One impossible thing is enough to deal with at a time. 

Bucky loves Steve, has always loved him with the deep loyalty of friendship. And that’s the kind of love Steve needs from him at this point—anything else is superfluous to the situation. Bucky’s not going to burden him with those kinds of what-ifs. He cares too much about Steve for that—and so the problem curves back on itself, like a snake, and Bucky sighs. 

The county seat and courthouse is in the next town over, a fairly quick fifteen minute drive up the road. Steve is quiet and thoughtful in the seat beside him, and Bucky doesn’t know what to say to break the silence in a way that would be welcome. He turns on the radio, and for once is grateful for the inane chatter of the DJs, taking a call from some poor woman who apparently thinks her boyfriend may have cheated. Bucky doesn’t think that calling a Saturday morning spin jockey is the most emotionally healthy way to approach that concern, but Steve snorts at the advice they give her, which makes him smile, so he guesses for today he doesn’t mind it. 

Bucky spends a little more time circling the parking lot than he usually would, angling for a spot with as little of a walk to where they need to go as possible, which he hopes isn’t too obvious to Steve. He manages to grab one from somebody leaving. 

“Ready?” He asks Steve, echoing his question from earlier. Steve nods, already climbing out of the car. 

Bucky smoothes his hands anxiously over his slacks, dipping into his pocket for where the rings sit, feeling like they might burn a hole in it. _Like carrying around a loaded gun_ , as every curiously misogynistic male sidekick in a romcom seems to tell the hero at some point. 

He has to take them out of his pocket to go through the metal detectors at security, and Bucky flushes beet red, darting a glance at Steve. But Steve is going through the other side, and not paying attention, so Bucky dumps them into the little plastic tray with his keys and wallet and clenches his teeth. He’s gonna—he has to give one to Steve in about an hour and a half anyway, he’s not sure why he’s being secretive about it now. Still when he comes out the other side he snatches them up first, pocketing them quickly. 

They ride the elevator up to the fourth floor. Steve is starting to fidget, now, running his hands over and over along the edges of the manila folder. 

Bucky hesitates, and then thinks _fuck it_. He reaches for Steve’s hand and interlaces their fingers, holding it firmly between them. Steve darts him a startled look, and then smiles, his shoulders relaxing a little bit. Bucky relaxes too. If they can’t hold hands to steady each other right now, as they’re about to get married, when can they? 

It’s not as long a wait at the window as Bucky had feared, and the lady behind the counter smiles cheerfully and passes them both a stack of paperwork, accepting their documentation over the counter to start typing it into the system. 

“Will one or both of you be wanting the name change form?” 

“Ah—no,” Bucky says, quickly, looking up from a page of initialing, feeling his cheeks go pink again. “Thanks.” 

Steve ducks his head over his papers, and continues signing. But the back of his neck is pink too. 

“It’s an additional charge of $50 if you want a hard copy of the license today,” the woman says. 

Bucky fumbles his wallet out and hands her his credit card without comment. They’ll need a copy for his HR rep to get the insurance documents going. 

“And did you have your own witnesses accompanying you today? Limit in the courtroom is six people, but the rest of your party is welcome to wait here for you.” 

“Oh—” Bucky starts. 

“—we’re on our own,” Steve says, “is that going to be a problem?” 

The woman smiles blandly. “No problem, we’ll just have the court reporter and the bailiff sign as witnesses, as long as you’re happy with that.” 

“That’s fine,” Bucky says, with a sharp nod.

They both slide their stacks of documents back toward her at the same time, and she glances at their signatures disinterestedly, comparing them to their passports. Then she takes out a big, official looking stamp, and slams it down a few times on the papers. 

“Okay, we’re running more or less on time. Bailiff will call your names when they’re ready for you, just hand this to the judge.” 

They turn from the window, and Bucky feels fluttery and anxious again, smoothing his hands down the front of his thighs. He’s surprised when Steve reaches out, taking Bucky’s hand again in his, tilting his head with a reassuring smile. Bucky swallows, and holds tighter onto Steve’s palm with his as they make their way across the waiting room. 

They have to pause, as the courtroom door opens and a flurry of people—it feels like way more than the six person limit, but maybe it’s just the added volume of clothing—pour out of it in a burst of happy noise. The bride is wearing a full ballgown style wedding dress, one of her bridesmaids carrying her veil behind her. Everyone is laughing, and the bride clings to her new husband’s elbow. They’re practically glowing with happiness. 

Bucky looks at Steve and laughs, nervously. Steve grins back, and ducks his head, laughing too. 

“How the fuck did we get here?” Bucky whispers, leaning over for Steve to hear. 

Steve shakes his head wryly. 

They take seats by the large widows, and Steve doesn’t let go of Bucky’s hand. 

They watch several more groups of happy, chattering people move in and out of the courtroom. There’s a couple in matching hockey jerseys, a pair of older folks with their adult children accompanying them, and a man and woman with their four young children all decked out for the occasion. 

It’s just past three o’clock when the double doors open and the little family spills back out, the kids giving an almighty cheer at the promise of cake when they get home. When they’ve cleared the hall, the bailiff looks down at his clipboard, and calls across the waiting room, 

“Rogers/Barnes party!” 

Bucky swallows down where it feels like his heart has leapt into his chest, and they both rise from their chairs, hands still linked. 

It’s a small courtroom, with only a few rows of chairs behind the tables where the plaintiffs and defendants would sit. It’s not a particularly romantic setting, though there is an arrangement of white flowers on the judge’s bench, and Bucky can see that the judge himself is wearing a cheery pink tie, the knot just visible over the top of his staid black robes. Bucky hasn’t spent much time in courtrooms, aside from a field trip for his civics class senior year of high school, but he thinks that the small staff inside looks more comfortable and relaxed than they would if they were conducting less pleasant business. 

“Got your documents?” The judge asks, beckoning them forward. 

Bucky steps up onto the dais and places the stamped paper on top of the polished wood. The judge glances over it quickly, and hands it over to the woman in the box beside him, who Bucky assumes is the court reporter. 

“Okay—any special requests? Are you planning to read your own vows today?” The judge asks, businesslike. 

“Just um—” Bucky says, looking at Steve hastily, eyebrows raised in question. 

“Just the traditional—whatever,” Steve supplies for the judge, smiling and stepping up beside Bucky. 

“Great! In that case, we’ll get started,” he says, rising from his chair. “Go ahead and face one another, and take each other’s hands.” 

Bucky turns, and Steve steps in, tilting his face to look up into Bucky’s as they take each other’s hands. Bucky’s breath feels a little constricted, and he can’t help but squeeze Steve’s hands. Steve smiles at him softly, and nods. Bucky takes a deep breath. 

“We’re gathered today to witness the formal joining in the legal state of matrimony of Steven Rogers and James Barnes,” recites the judge, in a formal but slightly impassive tone, “under the authority granted to me by the district court and the State. By your presence and in accordance with the information you have provided you both have stated that the marriage into which you are about to enter is undertaken freely, knowing of no impediments and acknowledging this as a legally binding contract. If you agree, please both say ‘I do.’”

“I do,” Bucky says, faintly. 

“I do,” Steve echoes him, just a moment behind. 

The judge nods. “Wonderful.” He turns to Steve, picking up a black leather folder to read from. “Now, Steven, please repeat after me: I, Steven Rogers…” 

“I, Steven Rogers,” Steve repeats, obediently. 

“Take you, James Barnes, to be my lawfully wedded husband.” 

“Take you, James Buchanan Barnes, to be my lawfully wedded husband,” Steve says, his eyes holding Bucky’s steadily. 

“Swearing to remain faithful for richer and for poorer,” the judge pauses as Steve recites, “in want and in plenty,” another pause, “in sickness and in health,” and finally, “choosing to honor you above all others as long as we both shall live.” 

“As long as we both shall live,” Steve finishes. 

He closes his eyes, briefly, as he does so, and Bucky blinks his own rapidly. 

The judge turns to Bucky, and repeats the process. The words are familiar, from a million movies and everything else. And yet, when it comes time for Bucky to repeat the words, 

“In sickness and in health…” 

Bucky feels his throat go suddenly tight, and it takes him a second try to get the words out. Steve’s eyes are wide and keen with understanding as he struggles, and Bucky wishes he could look away from Steve’s steady blue gaze, just for a moment to collect himself. 

He means it, is the thing. 

It’s not quite how he imagined himself saying these words one day, as a friend, but he means the promise—that he’ll be there for Steve in sickness and health and do everything in his power to see him through this to the latter. 

Bucky manages the end of the vows, and the judge sets down his script. 

“Are you planning on exchanging rings today?” 

“Oh, no—” Steve starts, finally breaking his gaze away from Bucky to look over at the judge. 

“—actually, yes,” Bucky interjects, freeing one of his hands from Steve’s grip to fish in his pocket for the rings. 

Steve gives him a curious look, a muscle in his jaw jumping as he looks down at the rings on Bucky’s open palm as he holds them up. Steve swallows, and looks up at him again, taking a deep breath. 

“Alright—Steven, go ahead and place the ring on James’ finger, and repeat after me,” the judge says. 

Bucky hands Steve the larger of the two silver bands, with the stripe around the middle, and Steve takes it with slightly trembling fingers. Bucky holds out his left hand, and Steve takes it in both of his, placing the ring half on his ring finger before glancing up at the judge. 

“With this ring, I thee wed,” says the judge, simply. Steve repeats it back, and slides the ring over Bucky’s knuckle. 

“James, place the ring on Steven’s finger,” he prompts. 

Bucky does, switching the position of their hands, and taking Steve’s slender fingers in his. His hands aren’t entirely steady—but then, neither are Steve’s. 

“With this ring, I thee wed,” Bucky says, his voice low as he pushes the ring onto Steve’s finger. 

It fits just about perfectly, he thinks, for something he bought on the spur of the moment in Target. 

“With these vows spoken and witnessed,” the judge says, “it is my great honor to pronounce you married. You may seal these promises with a kiss!” 

Bucky sucks in a quick breath, and he feels Steve’s hand twitch in his. He had somehow…not thought about this part. Why hadn’t he thought about this part? 

Steve’s tongue darts out over his bottom lip, and Bucky lets go of his hands. _In for a penny, in for a pound, he thinks_. They’ve made it this far. He steps in and cups both hands against Steve’s face, and tilts in to press his lips to Steve’s. 

Steve’s hands come up, sliding around Bucky’s waist as he leans unexpectedly into the kiss, parting his mouth slightly as he does so. Bucky feels his lips slot perfectly between Steve’s soft, full ones, and he tilts his head just a fraction to get the angle right. 

It doesn’t last very long, though one of Bucky’s hands—of its own accord—manages to find its way to cradle the back of Steve’s head, fingers slipping through the silky strands of his hair. 

But it’s long enough that by the time they both pull back, it has caused a cascading kind of crisis to flood through Bucky from the crown of his head to the bottoms of his shoes. 

Three stark, black and white facts accompany the crisis as Bucky just stares at Steve, and Steve stares back: 

(1) Bucky is not as good of a friend as he thought he was.  
(2) Bucky wants to do that again, immediately, with tongue and definitely not under the eyes of several courtroom professionals.  
(3) Neither of those facts were part of the deal—of this _marriage_ —under the conditions Steve had agreed to. 

He drops his hands from Steve’s face, dazed, and Steve catches them up again, loosely, in his, as they turn back toward the bench. The judge, reporter, and bailiff all clap and smile for them. 

“Congratulations, both of you,” says the judge, uncapping his fancy fountain pen and applying a flourishing signature to the official form in front of him. He hands it over to the court reporter, who signs it too, and then over to the bailiff who adds his as well. Then he slides it across to Steve and Bucky. 

“You sign here, you here,” he says, pointing with the pen. “And then you’ll take this form back to window four and they’ll get you set up processing it. License shouldn’t take more than an hour or two from here.” 

Steve signs quickly, and hands the pen over to Bucky, who has to think hard for a moment to remember his name, and then again for the date. But he manages to get his signature on the bottom of the form. Steve picks the page up, gingerly. 

“Many happy returns,” says the judge, sitting himself once again at his chair behind the big oak bench. 

Steve slips his hand back into Bucky’s, and tugs gently to get him walking, back in the direction of the doors behind the bailiff. 

He lets go of it once they’re deposited back in the waiting room, the bailiff already calling the next set of names behind them. 

“You okay?” Steve asks, quietly, giving Bucky a probing look. 

It’s funny, for all that Steve is clearly trying to figure out what Bucky is thinking, Bucky can’t read a single thing on Steve’s face. He doesn’t look unhappy, but he’s not giving anything away either. _Maybe because this wasn’t supposed to be a big deal, remember?_ Bucky thinks. He settles his expression as forcefully as he can, smiling at Steve lightly. 

“Yeah, you?” 

“I’m…yeah. Fine. Good,” Steve says, looking away quickly. “Window four?” 

Bucky nods, and trails Steve back to get in line once more with all the bright-eyed people waiting to register their love with the county.


	7. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Jesus Christ your feet are cold,” Bucky says quietly._
> 
> _Steve smiles ruefully, and curls his toes back underneath himself self-consciously. “Sorry, bad circulation. You should feel my fingers.”_
> 
> _“Gimme,” Bucky says, gesturing._

Bucky, unfortunately for him, had neglected an important consideration for the weekend, which was to plan ahead with any sort of reasonable excuse to get out of his weekly Sunday dinner at Becca’s house. 

By the time he thinks about it she’s already texted him to ask if he’ll bring an ingredient she’d forgotten for dinner, and despite spending several minutes contemplating it, he can’t come up with anything that will get him out of it without raising questions that he doesn’t particularly want to answer. 

So, reluctantly, he gets in his car and makes a stop at the grocery store, pulling up in front of Becca’s late in the afternoon and coaching himself on how _not_ to expose himself in the most embarrassing way possible. 

But, circumstances being what they are, he suspects he’s just not on his game as much as he needs to be if he wants to keep a secret from his sister. 

He’d suggested to Steve, after they finally left the courthouse with a marriage license in hand, that they get dinner or something to celebrate. But Steve had said (sounding disappointed, maybe?) that he didn’t think he was up to it. And he had in fact looked peaked, face pale and drawn. Bucky isn’t sure how much capacity Steve has these days for the kind of standing around on his feet waiting in lines that they’d had to do in the courthouse. 

So he’d dropped Steve in front of his house, both of them sitting for a quiet moment in the car parked at the curb. When Bucky had gotten the courage to look over, Steve’s head had been bowed, and he was twisting the ring on his finger, hands in his lap. 

“We’re okay, right Steve?” Bucky had asked, unable to stop himself from seeking some reassurance. 

Everything was different, but nothing was different, too. And all the fluttery feelings that had suddenly taken up residence in his stomach didn’t change the fact that even if the marriage wasn’t _real_ , it was something _good_. It was something good he had done and was going to do for Steve. 

Steve had looked over with a sad smile. “We’re good, Buck. Thank you—for all of this.” 

And then he’d climbed out of the car, and disappeared into his house, leaving Bucky to drive off and spend the night with his confused tumble of thoughts alone. 

He hadn’t really recovered his sense of equanimity in the night, and now Bucky sits in his car in front of Becca’s house for a minute, a last ditch effort to clear his head. But it’s no longer than two minutes before the front door swings open, and a small person wearing a large, colorful set of butterfly wings is hurling herself at his car door. 

“Uncle Bucky!” Katie says, in a commanding sort of battlefield voice, “Mommy says come inside or it will get too dark to go to the park first, and I want to show you how I learned to do the monkey bars!” 

Bucky sighs, resigning himself to his fate, and turns a grin to his niece. “The _monkey bars_? Kaitlyn Elaine, are you serious??”

Katie beams, tugging on his hand and pulling him toward the house. Becca comes out the open front door to greet him, trailing Thomas, stumbling on his chubby legs in her wake. 

“Got the cumin?” She asks, already reaching for the grocery bag in his hand. “I’ll dump this on the counter and catch up if you want to start walking?” 

Bucky huffs, but doesn’t contradict her. There wasn’t _really_ a question of whether he’d take the kids to the park for their weekly “exhaust everyone before dinner” ritual. 

He hands off the bag to Becca and leans over to scoop Thomas up, bouncing him on his hip until his fat little face breaks into a grin. 

Katie pulls on his other hand, her little face already dead set in the direction of the park, which is just a couple of blocks up on their same street. Bucky lets her guide him, and responds readily to her many questions and mostly-bragging-anecdotes about her most recent junglegym exploits. The girl doesn’t lack confidence. 

Becca jogs up to them just as they reach the entrance to the park, her cheeks flushed with the November chill. She slows to a walk beside Bucky as they start crunching across the grass, and Katie finally releases Bucky’s hand to run full tilt at the junglegym, which is now in sight. Thomas also starts squirming in Bucky’s arms, demanding to be put down. Bucky sets him on the ground at the edge of the play area onto the bouncy rubber mat, and he tears off after his sister as fast as his stubby legs can carry him. 

“The rain has been _killing_ me,” Becca says, dragging her hands down her face as the kids make themselves at home on the play equipment. “Let’s sit down, I’m dying. Turns out all the new coloring books in the world only get you so far before meltdowns happen—their screen time went to shit this week.”

Bucky follows Becca over to one of the parent-benches, letting the frozen chill of the metal soak through his jeans with a shiver. 

Becca tucks her hands into the pockets of her puffy vest with a sigh that escapes her in a cloud of white. 

“Guess the rain isn’t super fun for you either, huh?” 

“Somewhere above sleet and slightly below snow,” Bucky says, eyes tracking Katie’s progress as she painstakingly climbs the ladder into the Big Slide. 

“Hey speaking of that, are you gonna invite Steve for Thanksgiving?” 

Bucky sputters, taken utterly by surprise at the mention of the one person he’s trying really hard not to mention. “I don’t—I mean—I wasn’t—why would I—?” 

Becca stares as him for a moment. “I thought we talked about this, and you said he doesn’t have anyone in town?” 

Bucky wracks his brain for some memory of that conversation. It’s just possible that he recalls, sometime a few weeks ago when he told his mom and Becca that Steve was back in town…

“Right, that—I haven’t—I can ask him, I guess, if you—” 

Becca narrows her eyes at him. “You are _blushing_ James Barnes. What did you do?” 

“Nothing!” Bucky exclaims, in a tone that he knows immediately is a mistake. 

She smacks his arm, turning the full force of her Mom Face on him. 

“You _are_!” Bucky quails under her scrutiny. “Oh my god…did you guys…hook up?” 

Bucky’s mouth drops open, horrified. “ _Becca_ no! We’re just, I mean we’re just friends, it’s nothing like…” 

“Mmhmm,” Becca says, her stare not relenting even a little. 

Bucky looks skyward. “It’s a long story?” He tries. 

“ _Mmmhmmm_ ,” Becca says, more forcefully. 

Bucky looks around the park, shifty, as if someone might be listening. Becca raises her eyebrows expectantly. 

“If I tell you,” he says, hating that he knows he’s absolutely going to. He’s _terrible_ at keeping secrets. He probably knew all along he wouldn’t be able to. “You _can’t_ tell mom.” 

“What did you do?” She asks again, a little quieter, with more real curiosity. 

Bucky avoids her eyes for another minute, watching Katie dump onto the rubber mat at the bottom of the slide and jump back up with a shout of glee. Then he turns to Becca, ready to throw himself to the wolves to get it off his chest. 

“I—we got married.” 

Becca, for the first time in the entirety of his long life of memories with her, is rendered speechless. Her mouth opens and shuts like a landed fish, and it’s almost enough to revive Bucky’s minimal sense of humor about the whole thing. 

He starts the story at the beginning, and eventually Becca closes her mouth. When he gets to the part about Steve’s dad, about his diagnosis, about how out walking around his own house makes him short of breath, about how Bucky’s pretty sure his heart is officially failing, her eyes get misty. She doesn’t interrupt, but she does reach out and grip Bucky’s forearm in silent solidarity while he finishes the rest of his story. 

“So we went to the courthouse yesterday and—and I’m gonna get him on my insurance first thing on Monday.” 

“Oh, Bucky,” she says surreptitiously wiping her eyes with her other hand. She shakes her head. “You _idiot_.” 

Bucky flicks a look at her, annoyed. “What was I supposed to do, Bex? His _heart_ is failing.” 

Becca sucks in a deep breath, and shakes her head, blinking her eyes clear. “I know. But you’re still an idiot.” 

“Why?” Bucky demands. He couldn’t think of another solution three days ago, and he still can’t think of another one now. Anyway what’s done is done. 

Becca, to his surprise, leans over on the bench, pulling him into a fierce, tight hug. 

“You did a brave, beautiful thing Bucky, and _obviously_ I’m proud of you,” she says, and Bucky takes in a sharp breath, suddenly overwhelmed, and leans into her arms holding tight around him. 

She pulls back, hands still firmly gripping his shoulders, and searches his face. 

“But did you—” she breaks off, with a noise in her throat. “Did you think at all about _your_ heart before you jumped into this with both feet?” 

Bucky chews on the inside of his cheek. “I don’t—I don’t know what you mean.” 

Becca gives him a sympathetic, pitying look, and Bucky ducks his head away from it. 

“Yeah you do,” she says. And she isn’t wrong, much the worse for him. “You’re saving your friend’s life. I know you well enough to know that once you thought you could do something to help him you’d do it—that’s why I love you. Well, in addition to you being my brother,” she says, with a twisted half-smile. Bucky chuckles weakly and nods, and Becca’s smile fades again. “But because you’re my brother and I love you…I just don’t want to see you get your heart broken, if you can help it.” 

“Becca,” Bucky says, softly, “it’s not…it isn’t like that. We’re just friends.” 

Becca nods sadly. “That’s what I’m worried about. I don’t know Steve anymore. But I know you. And I know how much it lit you up inside when he turned up again. I just don’t think you can say that to me and look me in the eye while you do it—at least, not while being happy about it at the same time.” 

Bucky chews his lip, and does look over at her. She raises her eyebrows. But she’s right. She’s right, she knows it, and Bucky hates it. 

Becca rubs her hand in a quick, comforting circle across his back. 

“Well,” she says, “you can talk to me. If you need to. You’re a good man Bucky, I’m—I’m glad I get to be your sister.” 

Bucky’s throat is suddenly too constricted to reply, but he pats Becca on the knee and nods at the pavement under the bench. 

She keeps her hand on his shoulder until the gloom in the park becomes too heavy to ignore, and she calls Katie and Thomas over to them to start the chilly walk back toward home. 

He doesn’t hear from Steve for two days, and when he does it’s to turn down his invitation to the Barnes family Thanksgiving. 

_I’m really sorry Buck, I just don’t think I can manage it. And I just really don’t want everyone seeing me sick._

Bucky tells him that he understands, and he thinks he does. Or he tries to. 

He gets all of the paperwork filed with Helen in Human Resources to add Steve as a dependent on his health insurance. 

“Wow, congratulations Bucky, I didn’t realize you were engaged!” She says when he calls her up with Steve’s information. 

“Oh, um, thanks,” Bucky says, stomach clenching. It’s going to make for an interesting Christmas party this year at work, he realizes. There’s no way Helen is going to keep this to herself. “It was…a quick engagement.” 

She tells him it’ll take a couple of weeks for Steve’s enrollment to kick in, and to be on the lookout for Steve’s insurance card in the mail. 

Bucky hangs up, and texts Steve to let him know. 

Thanksgiving is fairly uneventful this year—just his mom, dad, and Becca’s family. 

He misses Steve, absurdly. It’s not like Steve was ever at a Thanksgiving with him before, and yet it feels like he should be, like he’s missing. 

It doesn’t help that Becca sends him no less than half a dozen sympathetic, knowing glances throughout the day. Like, step _off_ sister and let me wallow in _peace_. 

He isn’t sure until he gets a text Friday morning if Steve will still be having anyone over on Friday like usual, but he does, and so Bucky turns up with his bottle of wine and popcorn like nothing has changed since last week. 

It’s just Sam and Natasha tonight, and the scene he walks into is so reminiscent of the first, accidental time he’d joined them that it gives him a strong sense of deja vu. Sam opening the door mid-sentence to Natasha, who is puttering around the kitchen, Steve ensconced in a pile of blankets on the sofa acting as referee between them with dry good-humor. 

What’s different is that instead of looks of surprised confusion, Bucky is greeted warmly by all three, Sam pulling him into the warmth of Steve’s living room with a grin. Steve waves from the couch, and Natasha immediately starts grabbing down wine glasses for the bottle Bucky sets on the counter. 

He’s attuned enough to them now to notice the look that passes between Sam and Nat as he walks over, and he’s suddenly filled with certainty: _they know_. Steve must have told them. 

He waits for someone to say something about it. He knows both of them must have opinions…but no one does. 

“Did you bring that cab sauv again?” Natasha asks, lightly, “I loved that one.” 

“Food should be here soon,” Sam adds, unpacking the popcorn from Bucky’s shopping bag anyway, and sticking it in the microwave. “We ordered you a chicken shawarma, no tomato.” 

“Thanks,” Bucky says, smiling, and accepts a glass of wine from Natasha. “What are we watching tonight?” 

“It’s after Thanksgiving,” Steve pipes up from the couch, “so it’s officially Christmas movie season and no one is allowed to argue any more.” 

Bucky walks over to the couch, taking up his usual seat beside Steve and his blanket nest. “I like _Miracle on 34th Street_ ,” he says. 

Steve sends a triumphant glare over at Sam, who has flung himself into the armchair. 

“ _See_ ,” Steve says, “this is a man with _taste_.” 

“ _Nightmare Before Christmas_ literally has the word Christmas in the title,” Sam says, stubbornly. 

“Bah!” Steve says, throwing his hands up dramatically. 

“My only request is no musicals,” Natasha says, joining them at the other end of the couch. “And yes that definitely includes _Nightmare_.” 

Sam grumbles to himself and takes a gulp of wine. “Y’all philistines.” 

“Bucky hasn’t picked one yet, and furthermore I agree with his choice,” Steve says authoritatively, leaning out of his cocoon to grab the remote. “So we’re going with that.” 

Steve starts the movie as soon as the food has arrived, Sam getting up this time to dish it all out onto plates for them. 

The movie is one of Bucky’s favorites from growing up, and in the warm coziness of Steve’s house it’s like an extra blanket wrapping around him, warming him from the outside even as the wine warms him from the inside. He finds himself tipping over, leaning his shoulder against Steve’s, which Steve shifts to accommodate. 

Bucky lets out a soft, surprised yelp when Steve’s readjusting sets his feet alongside Bucky’s thigh. 

“Jesus Christ your feet are _cold_ ,” Bucky says quietly. 

Steve smiles ruefully, and curls his toes back underneath himself self-consciously. “Sorry, bad circulation. You should feel my fingers.” 

“Gimme,” Bucky says, gesturing. 

Steve hesitates, and shakes back the cuff of his sweater, reaching across his blanketed lap for Bucky to feel. Bucky takes Steve’s slender hand in his, and his eyebrows shoot up at how icy his fingertips are, even after being wrapped up in Steve’s overly long sleeve. 

“Oh my god,” Bucky says, “we gotta get you some indoor mittens or something—here.” 

He scoots a little closer to Steve to wrap his hand in the crook of Bucky’s arm, and tucks it up against his chest, fingers of his other hand covering Steve’s. 

“I—maybe,” Steve says, very quietly. 

Bucky glances at him sideways, wondering if this is okay. Steve is staring determinedly at the screen. Bucky sighs, leaning deeper into the sofa cushions—and he realizes with a start that Steve is still wearing the ring on his fourth finger, a cold circle of metal against the soft fragility of Steve’s hand. Steve goes very still as Bucky’s fingers linger on it, and Bucky swallows hard, simply covering Steve’s chilly fingers more fully with his.

They finish the movie like that, Bucky only releasing Steve’s hands (Steve had eventually given him the other one as well) when the final credits roll, and Steve tugs them back gently, still not looking at him. 

They clean up the dinner things, and throw out the rest of the half-eaten bowl of popcorn. All three of them get ready to leave at the same time tonight, Steve hovering in his socked feet by the door as they pull on boots and hats and scarves and coats to go back out into the cold. Bucky isn’t sure if he’s imagining it, but Steve seems a little more out of breath than he’s seen him except when they’ve been walking around. And he has his hand to his chest again, pressing his palm over his sternum. 

Bucky darts a glance at the other two, and then back at Steve, chewing on his cheek before offering, awkwardly, 

“Do you—would you want me to come by tomorrow? I can bring food if you need it—” 

“I’m fine, Buck,” Steve says quickly, shaking his head. “I can feed myself for a weekend.” 

“It’s no trouble—” Bucky starts, but Steve cuts him off, face going unreadable. 

“I’m good. Really.” 

“Oh…okay. See you um…sometime then.” 

Steve nods, leaning across Bucky to open the front door. He says goodbye to Sam and Natasha as well, and Bucky tries not to feel like he’s just done something wrong and is getting shooed out as a result. 

Sam and Natasha hug quickly, and Sam claps Bucky on the back before taking off down the street toward his parked car. Natasha though, doesn’t move toward her own sleek hybrid in the driveway yet, instead turning her catlike gaze on Bucky. 

He shifts, awkwardly. “Well um—see you next week I guess?” 

Natasha nods, eyes still keen on his face. “I guess,” she says, looking up thoughtfully into the dark night sky. “Feels like snow,” she remarks, seemingly at random. Then she turns her face back to Bucky. “I’ll see you soon, Barnes.” 

Bucky feels like he’s being measured, but he can’t for the life of him figure out what for—or what her conclusion is. He likes Natasha, but he can’t pretend that he gets her at all. He feels like he’s gotten a pretty good read on Sam in these past two months—but she remains a bit of a mystery to him. 

“See you soon,” he says, feeling like he’s prying himself out of the grip of her gaze with some difficulty. 

Natasha gives him another closed smile, at last blinking and looking away, freeing him. They both turn without further conversation and walk away toward their cars.


	8. Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“That depends,” Natasha says, leaning forward over the table. “How stupid are_ you _?”_
> 
> _Bucky gapes at her. “What do you mean?” he demands._
> 
> _Her lip curls, and Bucky, suddenly and terribly, is filled with the conviction that she can read minds—and his is an open, deeply embarrassing book where the pages are filled with_ Mr. Rogers-Barnes _in little hearts with arrows through it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dropping a bonus chapter because today is Christmas Eve and also I just feel like it! The burn continues to be slow ;)

Bucky tries to tell himself that the feeling of being dismissed he’d had at Steve’s door wasn’t real. There’s no reason for his feelings to be bruised. 

And yet—and yet. The feeling persists. He decides to reassure himself by texting Steve Sunday afternoon—it’s been over a day, he reasons, it’s not too needy. They’ve been texting a lot in the last few weeks since he’d given Steve his number. 

_How are you feeling? Let me know if you need anything this week, or just want to hang out or something :)_

Steve texts him back, several hours later. 

_I’m good, don’t worry about it!_

Bucky’s stomach twists. 

_No worries_ , he shoots back. 

But he _is_ worried, feeling like his unsettled sensation is much more valid now than it had been on Friday. He goes over everything that had happened at Steve’s house, trying to figure out what is was that he’d done wrong. He’d thought—Steve hadn’t seemed to mind, when he’d held his hands during the movie. But maybe he was just trying not to make an issue out of it—maybe it _was_ out of line. 

He feels glum the rest of the night, but by Monday morning his self-pity has turned into something with a little more spark, and he feels annoyed. He’s not being _weird_. _Steve_ is being weird! And Bucky is just hurt enough by it to feel irritated. So they got married! That was the plan and it’s _fine_. He’s actually positive that his own behavior has been impeccable since it happened, because god knows he’s spent plenty of time obsessing over it to make sure he didn’t act in any way other than he had before. The marriage isn’t real, but he’d thought that their friendship, which had been growing by leaps and bounds before they’d made that decision, was real. So why is Steve the one acting all cagey all of a sudden? 

The part of him that isn’t angry chimes in, reminding him that it could still very well be his own fault. Sure, he hasn’t exactly said anything to Steve to indicate that he might feel more than what they had bargained for about this whole arrangement, but maybe Steve figured it out anyway. Maybe Bucky had given it all away at the courthouse, on his face when he’d made his vows, in the kiss, with the rings. Steve isn’t stupid. He could have realized, and is now doing his best to put Bucky at arms’ length again, worried that if he doesn’t, Bucky might spill all of his inappropriate feelings all over him and make this whole thing suddenly awkward and miserable for both of them. 

But that’s not fair! Bucky grumbles to himself, shouting over his own potential humiliation. He’s _handling it_. He’s not going to ruin things, and he at least thought that Steve would do his best not to change the equation either. He doesn’t deserve to be blown off, not when he’s been so careful not to do anything outside the bounds of their genuine friendship. 

He broods about it through his route on Monday, boots crunching in the powdery inch or so of snow now dusting the neighborhood. 

He isn’t surprised when Steve is not around—it’s still below freezing out. But he’s a little bit surprised, even with Steve’s apparent attempt at coolness with him, that there isn’t a note pinned to the mailbox. Before now, Steve had been consistent in keeping up the tradition. It’s become the best part of Bucky’s work week. 

Bucky shoves a handful of mail into the box unhappily, and hesitates on the empty front porch. He should probably just read Steve’s signals here, and give him some space. But _Bucky_ is the one trying to be normal, right? And normally he wouldn’t leave without scribbling something down on the notepad he now carries just for this purpose. 

He huffs a white cloud of breath into the air in front of him, and pulls out the notepad. 

It takes another minute or two to decide on what would feel _normal_ and not _clingy_ or whatever Steve is being all dumb about currently. Their letters to each other have been where they’ve been able to be the most open, up until now. But Bucky doesn’t want to risk it. 

He scribbles a stick figure drawing of himself, covered in cartoony piles of snow, with the caption _Frosty the Mailman_. Steve had made a big fuss the first time Bucky had done a dumb drawing for him, teasing him about how he ought to take notes on Bucky’s technique and generally getting a laugh out of it. It feels like a safe bet, lighthearted. 

Bucky finishes his route, and returns the truck to the depot in the now full dark that has been descending earlier and earlier into the evening—too early to avoid no matter when he wakes up and gets started. 

He gets home to a text message from Steve—it’s just a photo of his own drawing, but colored in with some kind of watercolors. Steve has added to the caption: "…with a great big bag and a bright red nose, and two eyes like cold blue snow.” 

Bucky chuckles, inspecting the pink flush Steve has added to his stick figure face, and his bright blue eyes, a row of lightly sketched houses now added in behind him that he recognizes as the few that sit directly across from Steve’s house. Something in his calms, a little. They’re okay. 

There’s a note waiting for Bucky on Tuesday, and he snatches it off the front of the mailbox eagerly. Inside is a sketch, this one of Steve—or rather a pile of blankets with a Steve-shaped nose and pair of eyes glaring out of it. At the bottom it says: _Bears know what’s up in winter—ignore it and sleep instead_. 

Bucky laughs, and tucks the picture into the pocket of his parka. But he feels a little dissatisfied. They say a picture is worth a thousand words….but Bucky isn’t so sure about the math of that in this moment. He thinks he’d have liked a few more sentence clauses. He sighs and scribbles a quick note to Steve. 

_Your problem is you didn’t eat enough salmon this summer to make it work. Gotta plan ahead for that next year. I’ll start googling recipes ASAP._

Wednesday there’s nothing again, and Bucky can’t tell himself any more that he’s being unreasonable feeling like Steve has withdrawn. He’s too disappointed to take the high road and leave a note of his own, and he feels sad and tired, walking away from the empty mailbox—looking blank and forlorn against the wall of the house. 

He makes himself dinner that night from a bag he pulls out of his freezer, chewing glumly on pasta that he can definitely taste had spent most of its life frozen. He pushes it away morosely as soon as he’s eaten enough to curb his post-work hunger, though not really satiated. It probably means he’ll end up giving in and driving through a fast food place at like 11pm, or else eating half a loaf of bread worth of toast later in his pajamas. Oh well. 

He’s contemplating his television, and if he can come up with enough energy or interest to start a new tv show tonight, since it’s still fairly early, when he hears the unusual sound of a knock on the door. 

Bucky pushes himself off the couch with a frown, scraping his mind for who would be knocking—his super, maybe? None of his neighbors are all that friendly, they all pretty much keep to themselves. 

He removes the chain and opens the door, staring back nonplussed at Natasha, who smiles unreadably. 

“Uh—hi?” 

“Hi,” she says, mouth twisting up in one corner. Her hands are in the pockets of her sleek leather jacket, and her posture is relaxed. “You busy?” 

“I—no?” Bucky says, the words coming out as a question. 

“Good. Let’s get a drink.” 

Bucky looks around the hallway, like there will be some explanation of her presence floating there behind her. It’s empty, and Natasha just tilts her glossy red head at him, waiting. 

“Oh…kay,” he says, helplessly, now looking around the inside of his apartment. “I need—um—my wallet, and, er, keys…” 

“Shoes, too, probably,” Natasha adds, tone even. 

“Right,” Bucky says. “Hang on.” 

He leaves the door open, and shuffles around his apartment in some confusion, pulling on his shoes and finding his wallet, phone, and keys in the pile he’d left them in on his kitchen counter. He grabs whatever coat is near the front door, where Natasha has continued to linger rather than entering any further into the apartment, leaning against the doorframe. 

“I’ll drive,” she says, starting down the hallway as he finally stumbles to the door, more or less dressed for going…wherever they’re going. 

Bucky locks his door behind him, and follows her out obediently, wondering if he’s being kidnapped. 

As he slides into the passenger seat of her car and buckles in, it suddenly occurs to him that the explanation that makes the most sense why she would turn up on his doorstep unannounced is— 

“Oh, _shit_ ,” he says, head whipping around to look at her, “is Steve—is everything okay? He’s not—?” 

“Steve’s fine,” Natasha says, pulling out of the driveway. “Come on, you drink with Sam, don’t you? Too good for me?” 

“I—what? No, we didn’t—that was just one—” Bucky splutters, confused again. 

Natasha lets out a soft bark of laughter, giving him an amused look. “Relax, Barnes. I’m teasing you.” 

“Okay,” is all Bucky can come up with for the moment. 

Natasha winds her way through town, seeming to know where she’s going—which Bucky wonders about for a moment, since she doesn’t live around here and seems only to come around to hang out at Steve’s place. But he’s quickly redirected to the more pressing question of why she’s taking _him_ there, out of the blue. 

They end up at one of the higher end restaurants in town, an old brick building with hipster vibes. There’s a lounge in the back, and Natasha chooses a small table tucked in the furthest corner, taking the chair with her back to the wall. Bucky sits down across from her, not feeling a single bit less perplexed than he was when he first opened the door. 

Which reminds him of yet another question on the growing list for the evening. 

“How did you know where I lived?” He asks, “did Steve…?” 

That doesn’t really make sense, since he’s not totally sure Steve knows his address either. But Natasha shakes her head anyway. 

“You should probably exercise slightly more caution in your cybersecurity. You weren’t that hard to find.” 

Bucky gives her a look of utter consternation, and she tosses her head back, laughing. 

“Okay—probably not _everyone_ could get it. But let’s just say you better hope you don’t piss off the wrong kind of person.” 

“Like you?” Bucky shoots back, raising an eyebrow. 

Natasha holds his gaze evenly, and gives him a slow smile. “Yeah, like me. Lucky for you you’re currently high on my list of preferred people.” 

Bucky ponders this, as the waitress comes by to get their drink order. Natasha asks for something Bucky has never heard of, and he mumbles a request for whatever dark beer they have on tap. 

The waitress moves away again, and Natasha returns the full weight of her focus onto him. 

“I’m one of your preferred people?” He asks, venturing a tentative smile. 

She grins back, the clearest expression he’s seen on her tonight, and he relaxes a little bit. It might be a fierce kind of smile, but he feels like he’s on the right side of it at least. 

“Surprised?” She asks. 

“I mean—kind of?” Bucky replies, honestly. He was pretty sure she didn’t _dislike_ him, but that’s not the same as any kind of active fondness for someone who started out as a friend of a friend crashing your weekly movie nights. 

The waitress returns, setting their drinks in front of them, and Bucky takes a sip of his beer without really tasting it, just for something to do. Natasha also takes a delicate sip of whatever concoction she’d ordered, from a small fancy looking cocktail glass garnished with a leaf of some kind of herb. 

She sets the drink down, and twists the stem of it on the table, staring at it. This time, Bucky presses his lips shut tight, waiting for her to speak. Whatever made her show up on his doorstep tonight, she has a reason. So he takes another sip of his beer as a distraction and lets her get to it. 

“So,” she says quietly, after another moment. “You and Steve.” 

“Yeah…” Bucky says, bracing himself for the rest. 

She flicks her green eyes up to him and cocks her head. “Married, huh?” 

Bucky swallows hard and nods, holding her gaze. 

“How’s that going?” 

Bucky laughs, awkwardly. “I mean—it’s only been like two weeks.” 

She inclines her head. “Sure.” 

Bucky hesitates. “It’s going…okay?” 

Natasha raises her eyebrows at him, and Bucky’s reserve fails him. 

“It’s weird.” He admits with a deflating sigh. “He’s being weird.” 

Natasha’s face smooths out, and she leans back in her chair, as if that was what she’d been waiting to hear. 

“Yeah,” she says. “I noticed he was a little…Steve-ish with you Friday night when we were all leaving.” 

“ _Right?_ ” Bucky says, leaning forward with relief. He’s so not being crazy about this, and this proves it! “Wait—Steve-ish?” He asks, frowning. “What do you mean?” 

Natasha laughs, rolling her eyes a little, affectionately. “Steve is—Steve can just be a real asshole about anyone trying to help him.” 

Bucky opens his mouth, processing that. “I—but—he agreed?”

Natasha nods. “Which proves you a better man than any of the rest of us, at least in Steve’s books.” 

Bucky shakes his head, not understanding, and Natasha smiles. 

“You think you were the first one who tried to get Steve to a doctor?” She asks. “I mean, I think you’re the only one who offered to marry him for it. But Maria works at a hospital, and I know she offered to pull strings. Hell, I just offered to straight up pay for it—and I _could_. It wouldn’t have been that difficult. He refused point blank.” 

“Then—then why—?” 

Natasha shakes her head. “I’m saying, you succeeded where we all failed.” She reaches across the table, and grips Bucky’s hand tightly. “And I’m grateful for whatever you said to make him agree. When Sam told me I—” she looks away, blinking. “We’ve been worried about him for a while now.” 

“So why…” Bucky says, slowly, “why is he being—being Steve about it? I didn’t—he wanted to do it.” 

Natasha releases his hand, and leans back again in her chair. “I’m saying Steve doesn’t like taking _help_. If he had his way I’m pretty sure literally none of us would even know he was sick.” 

“But—not even to save his _literal_ life?” Bucky asks, incredulous. It’s so, so stupid. But it also…really makes sense. 

Natasha smiles, wryly. “Honestly, _especially_ not to save his literal life.” She shrugs. “He’s just…got a lot of pride, packed into a small person. And he spent a lot of his teen years getting treated for this thing where it totally didn’t affect him but it made people see him different anyway, and he _hated_ that.” She huffs. “I dunno, I guess it’s just one of those things where shit that happens to you in middle school sticks with you. I think after that he decided he didn’t want to give anyone the chance to get skittish on him. I knew him for years before I even had any idea.” 

She pauses, thoughtfully. “The thing you have to know about Steve is that he’s terrified of being anyone’s burden. I think—” she hesitates, capturing Bucky’s gaze again, meaningfully. “I think it meant a lot to him, to see you again—to see someone who remembered him before any of this happened. And it was really hard for him to give that up.” 

“But I—I’m his _friend_ , obviously I don’t care that he’s sick! Or no—” Bucky amends, “it doesn’t make me like him less. I mean I care and would like to do whatever I can to make him not be.” He makes a frustrated noise, running his hands through his hair. “So he’s mad at me for—for helping?” 

Natasha gives him a sympathetic look, much softer than her usual expression. “Unfortunately—yeah I think he probably is. Even if he doesn’t mean to be. I wanted to make sure…I didn’t want you worrying about it, if he was suddenly a little off.” 

Bucky huffs, taking that in. It’s…a relief, in some ways. Or in one, specific way, which is that if Steve is being weird for all of these dumb, ridiculous reasons of his own—it means he’s not being weird because he has sensed anything off in what Bucky had said or done at the wedding or since. 

“That’s—god he’s stupid,” Bucky says, with a disbelieving laugh. “So what do I do about it?” 

“That depends,” Natasha says, leaning forward over the table. “How stupid are _you_?” 

Bucky gapes at her. “What do you mean?” he demands. 

Her lip curls, and Bucky, suddenly and terribly, is filled with the conviction that she can read minds—and his is an open, deeply embarrassing book where the pages are filled with _Mr. Rogers-Barnes_ in little hearts with arrows through it. 

“I’m just saying, I know exactly what idiotic, unreasonable bee he’s got in his bonnet making him be awkward,” she says, and oh god—Bucky is transfixed, he literally can’t look away, and she can definitely see every single thing flitting across his face right now—she raps on the table and continues, “what I don’t know is why you’ve looked like the dog that got caught stealing the Christmas turkey since the moment we got here.” 

“I—I don’t look like…like that,” Bucky says. 

“Guilty as fuck and hoping not to get caught?” Natasha asks, ruthlessly. “Yeah, ya do. So why don’t you tell me why you thought Steve was mad at you.” 

“I, um—” Bucky says, faintly, trying not to glance around for an escape route which would be much too obvious at this proximity, “just, what you said…the uh, the pride thing—” 

Natasha laughs, and Bucky shuts his mouth, wilting. “If you say so.” 

Bucky recognizes the out that Natasha is so reluctantly giving him. If he were a stronger person, he would take it. But he’s not—he’s a messy heap of confused feelings, and he _really_ really hates keeping secrets. 

“I just…was worried that he might think that I—that I felt um—awkward—about the marriage thing.” Bucky says, deciding that maybe he can just own up to a half-truth here to cleanse himself, to prevent him from vomiting the full story against his will in another two minutes of Natasha staring at him. “Like he had to—I dunno, protect my feelings. Or something.” 

“Your feelings,” Natasha repeats. 

“Yeah like,” Bucky says, fiddling with his beer glass, “like, it’s not a big deal or whatever, but maybe he thought _I_ thought it was.” 

“Oh,” Natasha says, softly, and Bucky looks up to see realization dawning on her face. 

Bucky scrambles to halt the understanding he sees there, adding frantically, “I mean—I didn’t know! I had no idea, he was just being weird, I didn’t have a clue why, just—”

“Oh no,” Natasha says, shaking her head and closing her eyes. “Okay, well. This whole thing,” she waves vaguely at Bucky, “makes a lot more sense now.” 

“No it doesn’t,” Bucky says, one more attempt at redirecting this toward something much less humiliating, “I mean, it’s like you said right—Steve being Steve, can’t take his friends’ help, being—being Steve-ish—” 

Natasha reaches across the table again, grabbing his hand and putting a stop to his rambling defense in its tracks. 

“You like him. You—” she raises her eyebrows. “Bucky are you in _love_ with your husband?” 

“I—my—?” Bucky stutters, in momentary confusion at the word _husband_. His brain flicks to static for just a second at the thought. His _husband_. Right. 

“No-o,” Bucky says faintly, and shakes his head but he knows it’s not very convincing. “I can’t—we’re friends. That’s what I told him. That’s how I convinced him.” 

“And now he’s brushing you off for it…but he wouldn’t have agreed if there wasn’t something…” Natasha says, nearly under her breath, more to herself than to Bucky, though he hangs on her words. She looks up at him, more sharply. “Okay. I don’t think he knows, if that’s what you’re worried about. But—don’t you want him to?” 

Bucky shakes his head, certain about this, if nothing else. “I can’t—it was hard enough to get him to agree to this in the first place. If I told him and he didn’t—if he doesn’t feel the same, he’d never let me help him, right?” 

Natasha looks unhappy, but reluctantly nods. “Probably not.” 

“So he’ll accept my help as a friend—barely—and he needs treatment, surgery or whatever. He’ll get healthy again, and then—I don’t know. But I won’t give him a reason to back out before this works to get him better. Besides, I don’t know what I—what this is. Really.” 

It’s sort of true, if only because Bucky hasn’t let himself consider the possibilities of what his precise feeling might be too closely. That would be dangerous. The words _in love with your husband_ are already hanging in the air around him, sticking to him like a layer of fresh snow seeping into his skin even as he tries to brush them away. 

“I just…care about him, a lot,” he adds. That much he knows is true—that’s allowed to be true about a friend, and that’s as far as Bucky really wants to think right now, if he can fight off Natasha’s questioning tractor-beam of a stare and get his head well and truly buried back in the sand of non-acknowledgment where it belongs. 

“Okay,” Natasha says. 

“Okay?” Bucky asks, wondering what she’s really thinking. 

Her mouth twists, and she nods again, squeezing his hand before letting it go with a sigh. “Okay I can’t argue with the logic. It just…I think it sucks. For you. And maybe him, if he doesn’t know how much you really…care.” 

“But you think I’m right,” Bucky prods, “and you won’t say anything?” 

Natasha smiles at him, “I can keep a secret. Can you?” 

Bucky nods, firmly. “Til Steve is better. I’ll keep this one.” 

“Well, then,” Natasha says, raising her cocktail glass and looking at him meaningfully. She flicks her eyes at his beer until he picks it up so that they can clink their glasses together, and she peers over the rim of hers. “To Steve’s heart, may you continue to succeed where others have failed.” 

Bucky near chokes on his gulp of beer, and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth as he glares at her for the double-entendre. 

“Sorry,” she says, not sounding that sorry. “I mean it, though. I’m rooting for you—but Jesus, what a mess.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says, dryly. 

“My advice,” she says, seriously, “be as normal as you can—but not like, _normal_ normal. Obviously, actual normal people want to ask how their friend is doing when they’re ill, want to help them out. You should try to be _Steve_ normal, as in as much as you can help it pretend that nothing in the world is wrong with him. He’ll come back to you when he sees that you aren’t being nice to him because you think he’s a charity case. And then you can, you know, get him to accept your charity.” 

Bucky nods, seeing the wisdom in that, even if he thinks Steve is the most absurd person he’s ever known for it. Damn, he loves him so much. 

Bucky lifts his beer and drains the remainder of his glass in one go. 

“You’re driving, right?” He asks Natasha, who smirks. 

“Uh huh.” 

Bucky flags down the waitress, and orders a Jack and coke. 

“I think,” he says, smiling at her ruefully, “that this conversation requires me to be a little bit drunk.” 

Her eyes crinkle up at the corners. “Aren’t we pretty much done with the hard part already?” 

“Retroactive drunk,” Bucky says. 

Natasha grins. “In that case, knock yourself out. I look forward to seeing what I can get out of you when you’re intoxicated.” 

“You can try, sister,” he says, dripping with sarcasm. 

But looking at the way Natasha smiles at him, like he’s just given her a dare, he thinks that it is very likely that she will—and knowing himself, she won’t even have to work that hard. 

Whatever, Bucky thinks as the waitress sets down the new drink in front of him and he takes a bracing gulp. 

If Natasha can figure out exactly what it is he’s thinking or feeling at this exact moment about fucking _anything_ good for her—maybe she’ll let him know what she learns, because god knows he has no goddamn clue. 

Bucky wakes up the next morning hungover, embarrassed, and _outraged_ that the universe would let this—the consequence of all of his own poor decision-making—happen to him on a _Wednesday_ when he still has to get up and dressed and go to his job. 

He makes an unusual pre-work trip through McDonalds for an emergency coffee/egg McMuffin/hash brown combo in an effort to head off the worst symptoms of his previous night’s beverage choices at the pass. The grease and carbs do at least a little bit to soak up the churning combo of whiskey and regret in his stomach, and he hopes that the coffee perks him up enough that his supervisor won’t assume he’s ill due to the bags under his eyes. 

For once, he isn’t thinking about Steve as he leaves the Young’s house and hits the sidewalk with a jolt, but only because he really isn’t thinking about anything except putting one foot in front of the other and not throwing up in anyone’s planter-beds. 

And yet, there Steve is. The snow from the weekend has melted, and they haven’t received any more—but it’s cold as fuck today regardless, and still Steve is sitting on his front porch, wrapped in a large blanket and wearing a very thick looking beanie pulled low over his soft gold bangs. 

He looks up at Bucky happily as Bucky hauls himself up the two, low porch steps with more effort than it usually takes, but his smile immediately turns to something more concerned, and he adjusts his glasses to look at Bucky closely. 

“Wow—are you okay?” he asks, bluntly. 

“Yeah—no,” Bucky rasps, pausing to lean on the column of Steve’s porch railing. 

He inspects Steve through bleary eyes, noting the pink on his cheeks and nose from the cold, and how the blanket is wrapped tight around his thin shoulders. He almost asks if Steve should be out here in this weather—but then he checks himself. He thinks about what Natasha said. He’s got to resist the urge to take care of Steve—at least in that kind of way—however strong a hold it has on him. 

“I’m hungover,” he says instead, “Natasha bought me a drink—or like, four drinks?—last night.” 

Steve laughs sharply, “Oh no, she got to you on a Tuesday? That doesn’t seem very fair or responsible.” 

Bucky nods, and then quickly stops nodding, as it makes his head pound despite the Tylenol he’d popped an hour ago. 

“You wanna sit down for a minute? You’re like…green.” 

Bucky wavers, because he really shouldn’t. But he also feels like he wants to die, and fifteen minutes delay in his route won’t kill him. 

“Yeah, alright,” he says. 

Steve reaches over and pulls his sketchbook onto his lap, clearing off the stool he normally sets his supplies on, and waves Bucky toward it. Bucky sinks onto it gratefully, leaning his back against the wall of the house and shutting his eyes for a blissful moment. 

“So Nat, huh?” Steve asks, and Bucky cracks his eyes to see Steve looking at him curiously. 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, clearing his throat so it doesn’t sound so hoarse. “She was mad I’d been out that one time with Sam and never with her, I guess. Had to even the score.” 

Steve chuckles lightly, “That sounds like her.” He pauses, and then asks, in a still light but more curious tone, “So what did you guys…talk about?” 

Bucky takes a settling breath, realizing that he’s walked himself onto thin ice here which he is in bad shape to traverse. 

“Oh just the usual—getting to know you stuff, you know.” 

Steve snorts. “Yeah? She isn’t usually that forthcoming.” 

Bucky laughs too, weakly. “Yeah, I guess it was a little more interrogation and her getting to know me. But you know, same idea.” 

“You look like shit,” Steve says, grinning, “I bet she got more than she bargained for.” 

Bucky tips his head in agreement. “Unfortunately you’re probably right.” 

“They like you, her and Sam,” Steve says. “All my friends, actually. It’s nice.” He adds with another teasing smile, “Well, nice for me anyway.” 

Bucky smiles too. “Yeah, no—for me too. I’m glad I met them, thanks to you.” 

“Did she ask about the…you know…?” 

Bucky clears his throat again. “Uh—a little. But I mean you’d told her already, right?” 

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Yeah I told them.” 

Bucky shrugs. “Wasn’t much more to say about it than that.” 

“Right,” Steve says. 

A shiver passes through Steve, and with Bucky sitting as close to him as he is, he can’t help but notice. He can also see how Steve shoots him a defensive look, before he can even say anything. So instead, he bites down on the comment before it can form. 

“Maybe I’ll get her back on Friday, huh?” Bucky says, keeping his tone easy. 

Steve’s eyebrows go up, like he’s surprised, but he smiles. “You can sure try—I think all the time I’ve known her I’ve only ever been positive that Natasha was drunk maybe three times.” 

Bucky lets out a puff of icy air, not quite a laugh. “Typical.” 

“You can try Sam instead, just pay it forward you know.” 

“Yeah, keep my goals realistic, I like it,” Bucky says, and rises to his feet with a groan. “I guess I better get going—no rest for the wickedly irresponsible.” 

“Sure Buck,” Steve says. “See you Friday?” 

Bucky smiles. “See you Friday.” 

The next day it’s snowing again and Steve isn’t there, and Bucky assumes that means he decided not to be an idiot and stayed inside. But there is a letter pinned to the mailbox for him—and this time it’s all words, in Steve’s fine, messy handwriting cluttering up close to three pages with his thoughts. 

Bucky smiles, and reads it over twice, standing on Steve’s porch out of the gently drifting snow. It feels a little like an apology—and a lot like he did something right yesterday to get them back on track. He silently thanks Natasha, and apologizes for spending the whole previous day cursing her name. Her advice, it seems, was worth something. 

He writes back as quickly as he can with his fingers stiff from the cold, and tucks his reply in with the rest of Steve’s mail. 

Friday night he doesn’t succeed in getting anyone drunk, but they do have a good time, laughing and teasing each other in Steve’s cozy living room. Natasha, true to her word, doesn’t give a single indication of what had passed between them, except for one swift, approving look as they step out onto the porch. Steve had hugged them all goodbye, including Bucky, and even agreed to Bucky coming by again over the weekend without any hint of the reserve he’d exercised on him last week. 

They fall back into a groove, the one that had been becoming so comfortable before Bucky learned of Steve’s condition and everything that followed. 

The next Friday Bucky arrives early, so he’s there with Steve to be just as surprised as him when Sam and Maria show up hauling a six foot Christmas tree, explaining that they want to decorate it in Steve’s living room. 

“Did you bring popcorn again, Bucky?” Wanda asks him, in her soft, soothing voice a little after she’s arrived. 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, it’s a tradition he has continued even though nobody ever eats more than a handful or two. “Why?” 

“If Steve has a needle and thread, we can make a popcorn garland for the tree. To celebrate movie club,” she says. 

So he and Wanda raid one of Steve’s junk drawers, hunting for a sewing kit, and they sit side by side stringing popcorn in long strands while Maria, Sam, and Natasha hang ornaments at Steve’s direction. Eventually, Maria and Natasha kick Sam out of the endeavor, declaring that he has a bad eye for spacing, and he joins them too, grumbling. 

Steve watches it all with a bright, happy grin on his face. But Bucky, because he’s watching him more closely than he would or could admit to, notices that he grimaces now and then, occasionally wrapping an arm around himself as if he’s in pain. As soon as he sees anyone looking at him, though, he drops it at once, his expression smoothing out immediately.

They play _A Christmas Story_ in the background, though nobody pays much attention. By the end of it, the tree is decked out liberally if not necessarily tastefully in popcorn strands and ornaments and lights, lighting up the corner of Steve’s living room with a cheery, festive glow. 

“Thank you guys,” Steve says, as they prepare to leave. He looks more overcome than he normally lets himself. “It’s—that was really nice of you to think of.” 

Steve bits his bottom lip, looking like he wants to say more. Instead, he takes an abrupt step forward, and gives each of them a hug and a kiss on the cheek. He pulls Bucky in last—though Bucky tells himself it’s just because he was standing at the furthest edge of the group. He closes his eyes and wraps his arms around Steve’s waist as Steve tilts in to brush his lips over Bucky’s cheek. 

He tries not to think about what it had felt like, kissing Steve in front of the judge. But Steve’s breath on his cheek, even for a moment, is too strong a sensation for him to avoid it completely. Steve steps back, and unconsciously puts his fingers to his lips—just for a second—but it’s enough to make Bucky wonder if maybe Steve was remembering it too. 

In the middle of the next week, just over three since their trip to the courthouse, Bucky receives an official looking piece of mail from his insurance provider. He takes the stairs to his apartment two at a time, and rips it open eagerly as soon as he’s inside. Sure enough, it contains a letter congratulating him on his recent marriage—and one official, plastic insurance card with Steve’s name on the front. 

He texts Steve right away, and gets a series of thumbs up emojis from Steve in response. Bucky smiles at the text, ruefully. He understands now, how this isn’t an uncomplicatedly happy progression for Steve. But Steve has accepted it anyway, this means that next week he can make an appointment with a doctor—and that’s what counts. He hopes that whatever prognosis Steve had been given the last time he’d been treated hasn’t gotten worse or harder to deal with during his lapse in care. Bucky feels antsy, a restlessness under his skin as he thinks about Steve pressing his fist to his breastbone in some unspoken pain over these past few weeks. 

There’s a letter for Bucky on the mailbox as usual the next day, and Bucky leaves one in return. He sort of wants to wait to give Steve the new card in person, but he decides that it makes Steve edgy enough as it is—so he’d taped up the envelope with the welcome letter, and leaves it in Steve’s box along with the rest of his mail, letting him know by text that it’s there. Maybe it’ll be easier sparing them both having to give it to him in person, and whatever awkwardness would flare up from Steve’s sense of guilt about the whole thing. 

On Thursday, there’s no note from Steve, and Bucky feels like he made the right call not forcing Steve to confront this in person. He shakes his head, disappointed but slightly less devastated and confused than he would have been before his talk with Natasha. According to her, this is Steve’s MO—to pull away, embarrassed when he has to accept help and acknowledge his diagnosis. 

He writes Steve a quick note containing a very dumb knock-knock joke that Katie had told him at Sunday dinner this week, and leaves it at that. 

He doesn’t think any more of it as he finishes his route and returns to the depot, or as he changes into his street clothes in the locker room. 

Steve will come around again, if history is any indication. 

He doesn’t worry about it through his trip to the grocery store, or on his drive home. 

He doesn’t worry about it as he makes a quick dinner in his messy kitchen, or as he watches half of a truly terrible Christmas movie on TV. 

He doesn’t worry at all, really, until, at 9:53 pm, his phone begins to ring.


	9. Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Buck?” Steve rasps, blinking groggily. “Wh—where m’I?”_
> 
> _“Steve,” Bucky gasps, clasping Steve’s still chilled hand in both of his now, peering into his face as Steve frowns and squints around the room. “We’re—we’re at the hospital. At Broadview. They had to bring you here, you—”_
> 
> _Steve groans, squeezing his eyes shut tight, but his fingers grasp Bucky’s with more strength now._

It’s not a number Bucky recognizes. Which wouldn’t be the most unusual thing that’s ever happened to him, except for the fact that it’s almost 10pm. 

Bucky’s stomach twists, though he tells himself, as he swipes to answer the call, that there’s no reason for it. 

Maybe it’s some sort of intuition—a feeling in his bones. 

“Hello?” he answers, keeping his voice level. 

“Hi, I’m calling for a James Barnes?” 

“That’s me,” Bucky says. 

The fact that it’s a real person asking for him by name and not an automated robot scammer on the other end of the line causes his stomach to drop even further. 

“My name is Shelley, I’m calling from Trinity Community Hospital about your husband, Steven Rogers?” 

Bucky’s blood runs cold, and he sits bolt upright on the sofa, as if a steel rod has suddenly been rammed down his spine. 

“He’s there? Is he—oh god he’s not—”

“He’s stable at the moment, Mr. Barnes—I’m so sorry to be calling you with this kind of news—but he was brought in a couple of hours ago by ambulance and we just were able to run his insurance information to know to call you.” 

“What—what happened?” Bucky asks, breathless. 

“It appears he suffered a heart attack caused by some severe arrhythmias,” says the woman on the other end of the line in a calm, even voice. “It’s not unusual for someone with this advanced level of cardiomyopathy, but it’s good that he got to us.”

“A heart attack,” Bucky repeats, faintly. “But he’s—he’s okay?” 

“I’m afraid his condition has become quite advanced,” she says, slowly, “his heart is having a hard time pumping enough blood on its own right now. We’ve spoken to the specialist at his previous hospital and she seems to think that the best options for him at this point are surgical. Unfortunately we just don’t have the facilities for that kind of thing—Dr. Cho has asked us to have him transferred back to her at Broadview General in the city.” 

“W-when are you taking him? Can I go with him?”

“Of course,” she says, kindly, “I’m so glad I was able to get ahold of you. They’re working on getting him ready for transport now, but if you can get here in the next hour you’re more than welcome to accompany him—” 

“Yeah—yes—” Bucky gasps, already leaping to his feet and scanning the apartment wildly for his things. “I’ll be there, don’t—don’t take him yet, I’ll be there as fast as I can.” 

“Okay, I’ll let his doctor know. Do get here as quickly as possible.” 

Bucky hangs up without saying anything else, already throwing himself across his living room, grabbing his essentials as he goes. 

He makes it to the hospital in just under twenty-five minutes, and groans in frustration, smacking his hands against his steering wheel as he gets in the short line of cars waiting to get into the parking structure. The man at the ticket booth seems to Bucky to be taking his sweet time accepting money, handing back change and parking passes, raising the barrier one slow vehicle at a time. But if it _feels_ like a lifetime, in reality it’s only another twelve minutes before Bucky is slamming his car door shut and clicking the locks as he heads at a run for the echoey, concrete stairwell. 

He’s out of breath as he skids to a halt at the front desk, where a smiling nurse takes pity on him, typing Steve’s name quickly into her computer before waving over a coworker to take him where he needs to go. Bucky doesn’t register the man’s name, just follows him blindly through the brightly lit fluorescent maze of white hospital hallways. 

Bucky doesn’t realize at first, that they’ve reached their destination. Steve’s room is a mess of bodies, weaving around one another gracefully and quickly, hands full of wires and bags and things Bucky doesn’t take the time to recognize. 

When his eyes do find Steve, lying in the hospital bed at the center of all of it, he thinks, absurdly, guiltily, that he’s glad _he_ isn’t hooked up to any monitors that will tell this crowd of strangers exactly what kind of terrible things its doing to his own heartbeat. He’s sure it stops, for a moment, before racing forward again in the pure wave of fresh adrenaline and fear that hits him. 

It’s obvious that Steve isn’t conscious. He lies motionless at the center of a tangle of wires and IVs and whatever else they’ve got him hooked up to. His face is absolutely bloodless, white as the pillowcase under his head, and Bucky pauses in the doorway, supporting himself momentarily against the frame as he gets himself together. 

The nurse who had brought Bucky from the lobby moves around the edge of the small space, and says something quiet to a man in a white doctor’s coat. He turns around, eyes finding Bucky, and hands the tablet in his hands to one of the nurses. 

“Mr. Barnes?” The doctor asks, in a brusque tone. 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, weakly. “Yes, that’s me.” 

“Phillips,” the doctor says, holding out his hand, which Bucky shakes automatically. 

As soon as he lets go Phillips reaches for the wall, filling his hands with disinfectant and rubbing it over them quickly. 

“Your husband was admitted by ambulance at 7:10 this evening—he was able to call emergency services apparently, but was unconscious by the time paramedics arrived on the scene. He regained consciousness in the ambulance, but was given a sedative shortly after we admitted him. You’re planning on accompanying him with medical transport to Broadview?” 

The doctor’s voice is businesslike as he rattles off the details, almost monotone. His face is heavily-lined and serious, he looks like nothing so much as he resembles Basil, the bloodhound that lives at the end of Bucky’s mail route. Bucky shakes his head, clearing it, and then turns it into a nod of confirmation. 

“Good,” Phillips says. “I’ve spoken with Dr. Cho, the cardiac specialist who treated your husband for his condition previously, and have forwarded her his new scans and labs. She’ll be waiting to receive him when you arrive.” 

Bucky swallows, hard. “He’s—is he going to be okay?” 

“He’s stable,” Phillips says, in a clipped staccato. “And he didn’t appear to have suffered too much damage from the time he was down—he answered questions and was lucid when he came in. But his condition has worsened significantly since his last scans with Dr. Cho. I expect she’ll be able to go into more detail about his prognosis, but right now it’s important that we get him to Broadview as quickly as possible as his arrhythmias aren’t being fully controlled by medication. We’re getting him set up with mobile monitors for the ride now. Should be ready to leave in the next fifteen minutes or so. I think we’ll have some transfer papers for you to sign.” 

“Yes—okay, whatever you need,” Bucky says. One of the other nurses steps up behind Phillips, smiling kindly. 

“Would you come with me?” She asks. Bucky darts a worried glance at Steve, and she adds, softly, “I just need a couple of signatures at the nurses station.” She points to a desk just outside of Steve’s room. “You don’t have to go far.” 

Bucky takes a deep breath and nods, letting her turn him and walk him to the grey desk, looking back over his shoulder periodically toward Steve’s open door. 

Bucky signs the various papers the nurse puts in front of him, blindly, not really hearing what exactly they all mean. All he’d really heard was that they have to get Steve to the city as soon as possible, and these papers are required to make it happen. He pulls his insurance card out of his wallet with numb fingers to confirm all the information that had been printed on Steve’s. They must have found his wallet on him, or near him when they—when they found him—

“His—his things? Clothes and—?” Bucky asks. 

The nurse nods, and reaches behind the desk, pulling out a plastic bag with the hospital logo branded on the front containing what appear to be Steve’s belongings. He takes the handles wordlessly, clutching it to him. 

The phone rings on the desk beside the nurse, and she answers, responding affirmatively to whatever is said on the other end of the line. Then she hangs up, and turns back to Bucky, shuffling the last of the paperwork into a pile. 

“That’s his transport, they’re ready for him now. Will you follow me?” 

Bucky nods again—as if he has a choice. The nurse returns to Steve’s room and alerts the other people still in it that they’re ready to go, and then Bucky finds himself at the back of a slow parade—an orderly pushing Steve’s hospital bed down the hallway, and a nurse following beside pushing the medical equipment still attached to him by various, delicate wires and tubes. Bucky can’t see Steve from here—just the high plastic back of the bed dwarfing him. 

He goes where he’s directed, trying to stay out of the way as much as he can, and is shuffled bodily from place to place as the hospital staff moves Steve down an elevator, through more hallways and double doors, until finally they exit into what appears to be a private ambulance bay—red vehicle with the back doors open waiting for them. Bucky is faintly surprised to see it—he’d unconsciously pictured something more official, or more efficient, maybe, than simply loading Steve back into a regular ambulance. 

At last, someone nudges him, and Bucky realizes there’s nothing left but to climb in beside Steve’s stretcher onto one of the low benches, across from a young paramedic. Someone shuts the back doors with a snap, and the paramedic knocks on the window to signal to the driver that they’re ready to go, the engine humming to life under their feet. 

It’s just Bucky, the paramedic, and Steve now in the cramped back of the truck, and Bucky’s eyes are drawn again to Steve’s pale face. There are dark shadows under his eyes, and one of his arms is draped over the top of the thin blanket, hand curled so that the vein on the back of his hand, into which a butterfly needle is taped, stands out thick and blue against his skin. 

“Can I—can I touch him?” Bucky asks, quietly, not taking his eyes off Steve’s face. 

He expects a _no_ , but instead the paramedic smiles sympathetically. “Just be gentle, and try not to nudge any of the sensors.” 

Bucky reaches across the space with trembling fingers, and slips his palm under Steve’s, careful not to let his fingertips jar any of the equipment. Steve’s hand is like ice, and Bucky wills some of his own warmth to sink into Steve’s skin. 

Although his mind had been racing faster than he could keep up with it all through his mad rush from the first phone call to his arrival at the hospital, seeing Steve like this and being utterly useless in any way that matters to him right now seems to have overloaded Bucky’s brain completely. It’s a forty minute ride to the city under the best of conditions—which, Bucky supposes, being late at night and in an ambulance probably is—but he doesn’t really register a minute of it. The next thing he knows, the ambulance is pulling into a new bay at another generic, imposing hospital building, and a new group of bodies in a different color of scrubs is opening the back doors and creating a flurry around him and Steve. 

Bucky is jostled to the side again as they unload him, and he goes willingly where he’s lead, following the nurses and orderlies as he’s commanded into and through the building, into a new white room full of machines. 

As soon as Steve is settled into another big bed though, Bucky takes a look around himself, and realizes that this is a much different set-up than where Steve had been at Trinity Community. The room is large, large enough for Bucky to be seated in a chair where his knees aren’t in the way of any of the people checking on Steve’s wires and IVs. Big enough even to have a window. It half comforts him, that they are clearly not in a temporary kind of facility, and half terrifies him that Steve’s condition is serious enough to warrant the kind of room they don’t give to a patient unless they’re going to be here for more than a night. 

His powers of coherent thought are returning now, too, for better or worse. Bucky sits on the edge of his chair, trying to listen to everything being murmured by the staff who drift in and out taking Steve’s stats down and adjusting his monitors. Bucky wishes he knew what to ask—how to help, or even how to be prepared, informed enough to say the right things to whatever anyone eventually addresses to him. 

They are left alone for a time, nothing but the unsettling sound of Steve’s heart monitor and a hush that feels pervasive after the flurry of activity. 

And then—Steve stirs. 

Bucky is on his feet beside the bed in a moment, picking up Steve’s hand as delicately as he can, fearful of disrupting anything important but desperate to be touching him anyway. Steve’s fingers curl around his, weakly at first, with a start, and then more firmly. He opens his eyes. 

“Buck?” Steve rasps, blinking groggily. “Wh—where m’I?” 

“ _Steve_ ,” Bucky gasps, clasping Steve’s still chilled hand in both of his now, peering into his face as Steve frowns and squints around the room. “We’re—we’re at the hospital. At Broadview. They had to bring you here, you—” 

Steve groans, squeezing his eyes shut tight, but his fingers grasp Bucky’s with more strength now. 

“I had to call—felt faint—” he says, his voice sounding like his throat is full of rocks. 

“Yeah, you called, they got you in time, you did good,” Bucky says, soothingly. 

“Did I—?” 

“You—had a heart attack, they said,” Bucky tells him, voice cracking a little as his eyes threaten to overfill. “But you’re going to be okay. They said you’ll be okay.” 

He’s reassuring himself as much as Steve by repeating it. Steve nods slowly, looking like the motion is costing him significant resources to complete. 

“How did you—?” Steve asks, just above a whisper. 

“They found your insurance card—I’m listed as your primary. They called me.” 

“Oh,” Steve says, cracking his bruised eyes open again. “Sorry.” 

Bucky’s eyebrows snap together in a frown. “Sorry? What are you sorry for? Steve, you—” 

His protests are cut off, as a young, dark-haired woman in a white coat appears in the doorway. 

“Steve Rogers,” she says, in a kind but gently chastening voice. “I am _very_ glad to see you, but these are not my favorite circumstances.” 

Steve turns his pearly eyes to the doctor, and has enough blood pumping through him to go faintly pink across his cheeks. 

“Hello, Dr. Cho,” he says, hoarsely, pulling his hand from Bucky’s. 

Dr. Cho turns to Bucky with a calm smile. “You must be James, Steve’s husband. It’s nice to meet you.” 

“I’m—it’s Bucky,” Bucky says, faintly, grasping her hand. 

Dr. Cho nods, turning her eyes back to Steve and pulling a tablet from her lab coat. “I’m glad they were able to get you to me, Steve, but your scans are not making me very happy right now.” 

“I—how bad?” Steve asks, face grim. 

Dr. Cho gives him a sympathetic look. “We’re past ablation at this point, unfortunately. I was hoping when I saw you last that we could avoid anything more invasive but—the thickening of your heart muscle is too advanced now, and the fact that you’ve now progressed to full blown cardiac arrest means it’s time to look at something more aggressive.” She pauses, swiping through something on the tablet with a slight frown. “I’m recommending that we perform a septal myectomy and try to clean up some of the growth. Depending on what I find in there, depending on the damage, I might want to do a partial mitral valve repair. I think we should also place an ICD to prevent this from happening again.” 

“That sounds like a lot,” Bucky says. Steve just closes his eyes unhappily. 

“It is,” Dr. Cho agrees, turning her gaze to him. “It’s open heart surgery, which I’d hoped to avoid. But it’s gone untreated too long.” She looks back at Steve, and her voice softens. “Steve, we talked about this, remember?” 

Steve nods, biting his cheek. 

“It’s a serious surgery, and a serious recovery. He’s going to need a support system in place to help him after—we’ll probably want to keep him at least a week here, and he’ll need help for at least three to four weeks after he’s discharged, or else I won’t feel comfortable sending him home. Is that possible for you?” 

Bucky blinks, realizing that the question is directed at him. Dr. Cho waits, patiently, as he opens his mouth, surprised. 

“I—yeah of course,” he says, when he finally gets his feet under him. “I’ll—I’ll call work and let them know, I can get the time off.” 

“Good,” Dr. Cho says, decisively. “I’d like to get him into the OR as soon as possible, hopefully within the next couple of hours. I want to redo some of these scans just to be sure, but barring anything unexpected there’s no reason to wait. Has anyone been by to get your paperwork done and in our system?” 

Bucky clears his throat. “No—not yet.” 

“Right, I’ll send patient services over when I leave. Do you have any other questions for me in the meantime?” 

Bucky shakes his head, dumbly. 

“We’ll get you sorted, Steve. Surgery won’t be fun, but you’re going to feel a lot better after this—I imagine it hasn’t been easy these past two years with this progressing.” 

“No,” Steve mumbles, shaking his head. 

“Right, I’ll order the scans and be back as soon as I’ve got everything ready.” 

“Thank you, doctor,” Bucky says. Dr. Cho smiles, nodding briskly to him and then Steve before leaving the room again, silence stretching between the two of them. 

“Thanks,” Steve says, his head tipped away from Bucky. “For—for covering for me. Do you know where my phone is? I can—I’ll call Nat and Sam and—and figure out help…for after.” 

Bucky is confused at first, trying to remember if Steve’s phone was in the bag of his things or not, before it hits him what exactly Steve is getting at. And it fills him, finally, with a spark of heat in the space under his ribs that has been cold since he got the phone call that Steve was hurt. He feels his cheeks flushing with it, anger and indignation, and he makes an abrupt, frustrated kind of noise, strangled in his throat. 

“ _Steve_ what the fuck do you think—? I wasn’t _covering_ , I’m going to call my supervisor right now and get the time off! I’m not going to—to—” he stutters himself into furious silence, and runs a hand through his hair distractedly. 

“You don’t have to—” Steve says, now looking at him, blue eyes large and glassy, “I don’t want you to have to—” 

“ _I don’t care_.” Bucky snaps. And it’s true. In this moment, he doesn’t give a fuck about Steve’s insane need not to impose, or to be helped, or whatever the hell is going on with him. He doesn’t _care_. He’s going to help whether Steve likes it or not. “I’m—I have to go call now. I’ll be back in a minute.” 

He doesn’t wait for Steve’s reply or possible protests—Bucky leaves the room before he can try. 

Bucky calms down a little as he finds an empty waiting room area to call and leave the voicemail on his supervisor’s phone letting her know there’s been a family emergency, and that he’ll be out at least a week. Calms down enough, in fact, that he determines that he really should contact Sam and Nat, even if not quite for the reason Steve had suggested. He sends them both a text with the details as far as he understands them at this point, and tells them to call him if they want to whenever they wake up, but that he’ll keep them posted and that Steve seems to be in good hands. 

When he returns to Steve’s room, the flare of temper has gone out of him. He feels mostly tired—and worried. 

Steve struggles a little to sit up as he re-enters, an agonized look on his face. 

“Bucky, listen, I’m really sorry about—” 

Bucky holds up a hand, and makes for the chair beside Steve’s bed, sinking into it. 

“Steve, please just—stop apologizing,” he says, wearily, “it makes me feel like shit.” 

“Oh,” Steve says, quieter. “Sor—” he stops himself, with a small shake of his head, “I mean, that’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” Bucky says, looking up at Steve from beneath his lashes, feeling raw and exposed. “I just—I get that I’m not really your husband.” He pauses, reaching for what he really _wants_ to say here, and trying to close the gap between that and what he can reasonably get away with saying. “But we—we’re real friends, at least? Aren’t we? Can’t you just let me help you? Can’t you believe it’s because I really, really want to without trying to spare me the trouble or—or whatever?”

Steve’s throat works for a moment, and he looks down at his hands in his blanketed lap, and then around at his halo of machines. 

“We are,” he says, voice low with emotion. “We are real friends. But I don’t—I just wish we could’ve had that like normal people, without—without all this. I didn’t want you to have to see me this way.” 

“ _Steve_ ,” Bucky says, leaning forward in his chair again, reaching for Steve’s hand. Steve resists his grip for a moment, going stiff, but then relaxes into it, clasping his fingers around Bucky’s. “I don’t _see_ you any kind of way because of this, I just see that you’re in pain and I want to do what I can to—I wish it wasn’t like this either, for you. But I don’t want to sit home pretending that it’s not happening while you deal with it alone like—like you have to get better first before our friendship can come off hiatus, like there’s sick-leave for me caring about you or wanting to be around you.” 

Steve bites his lip, and blinks several times in rapid succession, looking down at their clasped hands. 

“Okay,” he whispers. 

“Okay?” Bucky says, squeezing Steve’s hand. 

“Yeah,” Steve says, taking a deep breath and looking up at him again. “You’re—thank you. I know how lucky I am to have a—a friend like you.” 

Bucky tries out a smile, though it feels a little squirrelly and not quite as reassuring as he’d hope. 

“I’m lucky too, you know.” 

Steve closes his eyes, and presses his mouth together in a tight line. And for the moment, Bucky lets the conversation lie. He’s not sure what it might take to convince Steve how desperately grateful he is to be able to do _anything_ for him—but he knows that getting Steve to accept his help for the moment is probably enough of a step to take tonight, with his strength depleted and his emotions taxed to the brink already by the events of the day and the surgery that lies ahead. 

So he lets Steve rest, holding his hand until a man in a hospital branded pull-over comes in and quietly asks if it’s a good time to fill out some paperwork. 

By the time Bucky is done shuffling through the stack of pages, Steve is asleep, breathing softly—if a little unevenly—his exhausted face relaxed and slack against the stark white pillow.


	10. Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“What’d you get? Bring me a teddy bear?” Steve says, gesturing at the bag Bucky set down by his chair._
> 
> ___“Hah,” Bucky says, dryly. “Yeah, with a big ole heart that says ‘Get Well Soon’ on it, figured that would be exactly what you’d want to see from me after um—whatever.”_ _ _

Bucky isn’t sure exactly when he drifts off—the hospital chair, while better than the ones in the ER at Trinity, isn’t entirely conducive to sleep. But at some point after filling out the official forms and watching as an orderly takes Steve away for scans and brings him back again, his body must take over, because he now blinks awake. As he gets his bearings, he realizes there’s sunlight pouring in the high windows of Steve’s room, and the shuffling steps of a nurse checking up on Steve. 

“What time is it?” He asks, thickly. 

The nurse smiles. “Just after 7. Dr. Cho asked me to let you know she’s got an OR booked for 10 this morning—soonest available. So I’m going to need to wake him up and start getting him prepped for surgery.” 

Bucky swallows, and rubs his eyes roughly, shaking the last of the unsatisfying sleep off of him.

“There somewhere to get coffee around here?” 

The nurse grins behind his red beard, and nods. “Second floor cafeteria. We won’t be taking him anywhere for another hour or two, so you’ve got time.” 

“Thanks,” Bucky says, rising creakily, all of his joints stiff and protesting the uncomfortable position. 

“After surgery,” the nurse says, “they’ll be moving him into the ICU for a day or two, and probably down to Med-Surg after that. Make sure you let them know you’re staying with him overnight, they can get you set up with a cot so you don’t have to sleep sitting upright again.” 

“Ah fuck,” Bucky says, straightening out his spine with a crack. “Thanks for the tip.” 

The nurse nods, amiably, and Bucky—after a last, quick glance at Steve—leaves him to do his work, hurrying through the hospital halls to try and procure some caffeine before Steve is well and truly awake and possibly on his own again. 

Bucky finds the cafeteria without too much trouble, pointed in the right direction by another scrubs-clad person one floor down who takes one look at his face and seems to know immediately what he’s looking for before he has a chance to ask. 

Half an hour later, with a large coffee in hand and having scarfed down a bagel whole, Bucky stumbles back out of the cafeteria trying to remember where he’d come from. He gets a little lost, boarding the wrong elevator in a haze of too-little-sleep—but it turns out to be a good thing as he ends up outside of the hospital pharmacy which stocks, in addition to medications, presumably, a reasonable selection of helpful items for someone making an unexpected stay. Bucky buys two toothbrushes for him and Steve, and a stick of deodorant and travel-sized face wash for himself. He doesn’t know how long it might be before he sees a shower again, and he at least wants to feel human enough to interact with Steve’s medical team without feeling (or smelling) like a zombie. 

When Bucky finds his way back to Steve’s room, he finds it occupied again by Dr. Cho and another, different nurse. 

Dr. Cho is perched on the edge of Steve’s bed, chatting to him cheerfully. Steve even has a bit of a smile on his face as he listens to her, responding now and then, and more or less doing his best to ignore the nurse, who has his hospital gown unsnapped over his chest, and seems to be washing his torso with a small tub of soapy water. 

Steve looks up as Bucky enters and then glances down at his bare chest, blushing a little at the tips of his ears. 

Dr. Cho turns around and smiles at him. “Hey, I was just telling Steve about my new dog. I tried to get him to cough up details about the wedding, but he’s withholding.” 

She grins, and Bucky smiles back, flicking his eyes uncertainly to Steve, who blushes harder. 

“And Elisa is getting him cleaned up for surgery,” she adds, as if Bucky hadn’t noticed the progress of the bedside bath. “So—whirlwind romance?” 

“I—me and Bucky knew each other as kids,” Steve says, not looking at Bucky. 

“Oh my gosh, _cute_ ,” says Dr. Cho. Bucky is torn between being happy that Steve has a doctor who cares about him and clearly knows him pretty well from before he’d stopped getting treatments, and wishing that Dr. Cho were a little less on-the-nose about her interest. 

“It was pretty simple—courthouse wedding,” Bucky says, stepping around the bed to return to his chair. He feels like his spine is still painfully in the shape of it. He takes a gulp of his coffee self-consciously. 

“That’s nice though,” Dr. Cho says, amiably, “people spend too much money on weddings and end up stressed out and hating their families. I bet a small courthouse thing is the nicest way in the end.” 

“Yeah,” Steve mumbles, looking anywhere but at Bucky. 

“It _was_ nice,” Bucky says, firmly. Steve’s eyes dart to him, questioning. 

Bucky just smiles, blandly. Whether or not it was exactly the kind of thing Dr. Cho is talking about, it had been a nice day. He’d been so happy to be able to do that for Steve, to do it _with_ him. And it was worth it—getting Steve here when he needed to was exactly what it was all for. 

“That’s great, I’m happy for you two,” Dr. Cho says. Then she rises, and turns to Steve. The nurse is finishing drying him off, wiping away the last of the soapy water and reattaching the leads to his heart monitor. “Okay Steve, I’m going to go check on the OR. Should be coming to get you in the next hour or so to take you up. Bucky,” she says, looking up at him, “Steve won’t be coming back to this room after, so I’ll ask you to wait in the waiting area until he’s out and then we’ll get him set up, okay?” 

Bucky takes a quick, deep breath, and clutches the paper coffee cup tightly with both hands. Dr. Cho’s face softens. 

“Look, I can’t tell you that there’s nothing to worry about—but I’m _really_ good at this. Isn’t that right, Steve?” 

“She’s really good, Buck,” Steve says, looking at Bucky with wide, imploring eyes. Like he needs _Bucky_ to believe it. 

“This is going to help you so much,” she adds. Steve nods. “Right, see you guys soon.” 

She and the nurse exit together, leaving Steve to slump back against his pillow with a sigh. 

“What’d you get? Bring me a teddy bear?” Steve says, gesturing at the bag Bucky set down by his chair. 

“Hah,” Bucky says, dryly. “Yeah, with a big ole heart that says ‘Get Well Soon’ on it, figured that would be exactly what you’d want to see from me after um—whatever.” 

He shuts his eyes briefly, annoyed at himself for where that sentence ended when he hadn’t intended to bring it up at all. 

But Steve, to his surprise, laughs softly. “I’ve been such a dick to you. I deserve a—I don’t know, a snake holding a heart that says ‘Fuck Off, Dumbass’ or…something.” 

Bucky gives Steve a crooked smile, pleased at the peace offering. 

“Holding it with…what?” 

Steve looks puzzled for a moment, and then breaks into a grin. “Oh—its tail? I guess? I don’t know, I didn’t think it through. Gift shop probably doesn’t carry anything for that anyway.” 

“Nah, but they did have toothbrushes and soap and stuff. Which I guess is sort of like a gift for you since I’m pretty sure I smell like crap.” 

Steve tips his head, looking Bucky up and down. “Actually, you know, for someone who spent the night in a chair I’d say you look pretty obnoxiously _not_ like crap at this point.” 

“Oh, well…thanks,” Bucky says, ducking his head. 

“Did you—” Steve starts, his tone shifting to something more subdued. “Do Sam and Natasha and them…do they know?” 

Bucky nods. “I texted them last night, Sam said he’d let Maria and Wanda know too. I promised to call as soon as you go in.” 

“Good,” Steve says, absently, “that’s good.” 

“St—” Bucky starts, just as Steve opens his mouth to say something as well. They both stop, looking intently at the other. 

“Go ahead,” Bucky says. 

Steve takes a deep breath, and Bucky braces himself. 

“If anything happens to me…” Steve says, slowly. 

Bucky freezes. His instinct is to say _don’t, nothing’s going to happen_. 

But he can’t promise that, and it wouldn’t be fair to Steve to refuse to hear whatever he feels like he needs to say, even if Bucky has been very deliberately choosing not to consider any possibility but him coming out better than he went in. 

Steve swallows, and watches as Bucky clenches his teeth together over any words before continuing. 

“If anything happens to me, the paperwork for the house and all my other stuff is in the top right desk drawer in my office. Key is in the top left drawer under an old tin of pastels. And tell—” his voice cracks, and he closes his eyes for a moment, “tell Sam and Nat and Maria and Wanda that I love them and—and that I’m sorry I was so stubborn about letting them help these past couple years.” 

Bucky blinks hard against the tears rising in his eyes. “I will.” 

Steve’s eyes are over-bright too, but he still holds Bucky’s gaze. “I know you don’t want me saying sorry anymore but—I’m sorry to you too. That I fought you so hard when you were just—well. You know.” 

“You don’t need to be. And anyway,” he adds, unable quite to help himself, “you’re going to be fine. You can tell them yourself.” 

“Yeah,” Steve says, mouth twisting into a rueful smile. “I’ll do that. Hold me to it, okay?” 

Bucky nods, and Steve lifts his hand, waving for Bucky to reach across with his. Steve shifts his web to grasp it with both of his. 

“I don’t know what I would’ve done without you, Buck,” Steve says, dropping his eyes. 

Bucky takes a deep breath, stunned by the admission. _Something_ it seems, finally clicked for Steve. Maybe it was Bucky yelling at him earlier or maybe it’s the scare he gave himself or the prospect of surgery. But whatever it is, Bucky hopes that Steve Rogers has finally made peace with the idea that a little help isn’t the end of the world. 

“You don’t have to,” Bucky manages. “I’m here.” 

Steve’s face does something complicated, and he looks away. But he doesn’t let go, and Bucky holds Steve’s hand as the minutes tick by them, until, at last, the time arrives for Steve to be taken away for surgery. 

Bucky walks with him all the way to the red line, where only medical personnel are allowed past. Steve gives him a small wave, and Bucky raises his hand in reply. 

He feels dazed and unreal as he drifts to the family waiting area, and sinks into another uncomfortable hospital chair. Bucky looks at the clock—Dr. Cho said it might take the better part of the afternoon. 

Bucky sighs, and takes his phone out of his pocket. He’d promised an update for Sam and Natasha—and more importantly, he needs to set his mind in a direction that is opposite Steve’s locked desk drawer and thinking about ever needing to open it. Talking to Sam or Nat or even Becca if he gets desperate will definitely do the trick. 

It takes every minute of the longer time estimate that Dr. Cho had given Bucky before anyone appears for him in the waiting room. 

At hour three (the shortest estimate) he starts looking at the clock about once every fifteen minutes. He does end up calling Becca, just to keep him sane. She stays on the phone with him well into hour four, when she has to leave to pick Katie up from a play-date. At hour five he stands up from his chair and begins pacing in tight circles at the outer edge of the waiting area. 

Finally, five minutes into hour six, when Bucky’s brain is ragged from worry to the point of flying apart at the seams, he sees a scrubbed figure stepping into the room and glancing around at the waiting families. 

Dr. Cho has her mask pulled down around her neck, so Bucky can see how she beams as soon as she spots him, walking toward him as his entire body deflates with relief, like a bounce house with the air turned off. He grips the back of a chair to keep himself steady as she approaches. 

“Great news, Bucky,” she says, and for a moment Bucky thinks she’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, he’s so happy. “Steve came through great, I was able to remove a significant amount of the thickened septum as well as placing the ICD. If he takes care of himself, I don’t think that he’s ever going to have things get to this point again.” 

“I— _thank you_ ,” Bucky gasps, pitching forward to sweep Dr. Cho into an awkward but earnest hug before he can think twice. 

Dr. Cho laughs as he pulls away. “They’re getting him settled in the ICU right now—he came out of the anesthesia fine, but he’ll still be a bit groggy. We’re going to want to keep him fairly sedated for tonight, so that he can rest. But you can see him now, if you want.” 

Bucky nods, eagerly. “Yes, please.” 

“Okay,” Dr. Cho says, still smiling, and she turns and waves over one of the nurses who had accompanied her. “Annie, can you take Mr. Barnes up to 308 and get him set up to stay the night, please?” Annie gives her a brief, surprised look, and she adds, quieter, “I know, tell them I’m signing off on it if anyone gives you a problem. I think it’s best, in this case.” She turns and scrutinizes Bucky for a moment, taking in what he’s sure must be his now haggard and alarming appearance. “Order dinner from meal services too, would you? Steve won’t be eating til tomorrow but you look like you could use it.” 

Annie also gives Bucky a pitying once-over, and nods a confirmation to Dr. Cho, who Bucky is reluctant to let go of. But obviously Steve isn’t her only patient, he reminds himself. Annie places a gentle hand on his elbow, and steers him toward the elevators. 

The scene in Steve’s room is an almost exact mirror of how he had looked when Bucky arrived at Trinity Community—what was it? Nearly a full day ago. He’s lying unconscious in the middle of his big bed, while a pair of nurses work around him. 

But there are differences too, some of them alarming and some comforting. His color is better, for one, the natural pink of his cheeks back to lift the sallow paper-white his skin had been then. And the heart monitor beside him is beeping with a steady, even pace rather than the erratic starts and stops that had threatened to overwhelm him before. Still, Bucky’s eyes also note the long, thick wad of bandaging that puckers his fresh hospital gown all down the front of his chest, peeping up over the neck of it as high as his collar bones. His hair is lank and dark with sweat too, and there’s lingering etchings of pain around his mouth. 

“This is the husband,” Annie says, when one of the nurses turns to look at them from typing something into the computer monitor. “He’ll be staying the night.” 

The other nurse raises her eyebrows, and Annie shrugs. “Dr. Cho’s orders.” 

The nurse looks at Bucky, interestedly. Annie smiles over at Bucky too, and adds “They’re newlyweds.”

Bucky blushes, and the other nurse’s face softens into a knowing expression. “Alright. I’ll arrange a cot when we’re done.” 

From the bed, Steve groans, and Bucky is immediately hurried to the side of the room out of the way as the three women converge on him, blocking Bucky’s view as they bustle around doing inscrutable things. 

Eventually, they move back. One returns to the computer, while the other goes to a locked cabinet, removing a syringe of something from a drawer she opens with a swipe of her I.D. The other exits. 

Steve is peering groggily around, his mouth turned down at the corners in a mindless look of pain. 

“I’m going to give you something for the pain, Mr. Rogers,” says the nurse with the syringe, picking up Steve’s IV. “It might make you sleepy again, and that’s okay. We want you just to rest tonight, alright?” She says the last half to Steve and half to Bucky, who nods in understanding. 

Steve stirs fitfully for another moment, before whatever medicine she’d pushed clearly takes effect, and his body again goes slack, his eyes unfocused until they close completely. 

“Okay,” the nurse says, discarding the used syringe and turning to Bucky. “I’m going to get you set up to sleep in here, and some food.” She looks at Bucky, sternly. “But you should know he’s going to be out for a while yet, and we’re going to be coming in to do checks every hour and probably waking you up. You sure you don’t wanna go somewhere and get some real sleep and come back in the morning?”

Bucky shakes his head, numbly. He can’t even think of leaving. Sleep also feels like a sort of myth to him at this moment, so the thought of it being disturbed doesn’t—well, disturb him. He just knows he has to stay if they will let him. 

The woman shrugs. “Okay, you hang tight then. But let him rest, okay?” 

Bucky nods, obediently, eyes glued to Steve. 

The two women leave, and for the moment, he’s alone. 

He scoots his chair up to the edge of Steve’s bed, eyes glued to his face. 

Steve is incredibly handsome—on that opinion Bucky has never wavered. But pain is a great equalizer, and it’s hard to appreciate Steve’s strong bones and fine skin without the quick, mercurial expressions of his eyes or quirk of his mouth. Instead his face is creased from his pillow, his complexion dull with many hours in the hospital bed. 

Bucky loves him so much he feels like he might break a rib at it. 

Suddenly, whatever shock and tightly-wound worry had kept him running through the last night and day abandons him—unspooling into a flood, and Bucky gasps, unable to quite keep back the sob that rips out of him. 

He wraps his fingers around Steve’s limp hand, and notes that for the first time since he’s known him—known him as a grown up, anyway—Steve’s fingers are warm. 

Bucky stops fighting the tears, letting them run down his face as he crumples forward over the edge of Steve’s bed, resting his forehead on the back of Steve’s hand in both of his, his shoulders shaking. 

Now, with the possibility of losing Steve behind him, Bucky feels all of the fear of it crashing down on him—what it would have meant to him to have Steve taken away now. It’s unthinkable. And now—now Steve is going to be…okay. Not even okay like he was before, just barely keeping things in check and getting by, but if Dr. Cho is right he’ll be _better_ than okay. He’ll be able to leave his house without getting short of breath, to not be in pain when he sits or stands or lies down, to make choices that have nothing to do with this—this thing that has consumed his time and attention and energy, which can now fade again into the background of just being. 

He doesn’t have any idea, he realizes now, what that will mean to Steve. They’d never talked about it, really. And Bucky had been so concerned with the “in sickness” part of things that he’d never paused to consider the “in health.” It’s ironic, honestly. For most people making those vows the _health_ of it all was the given, the _sickness_ would be the real test of a marriage, if it could withstand it. 

For Steve and Bucky, it’s very likely that _in health_ is the end of this. 

They’ll stay married, Bucky reasons, because Steve will need follow-ups and what have you. But if he’s truly well, he’ll be able to work again, he won’t keep needing Bucky’s insurance forever. He wouldn’t have to stay in his old house anymore either, if he doesn’t want to—he can go back to the city, to the life he lived before he took his turn for the worse. Is that what he’s wanted all along? Bucky has no idea. 

It strikes him that Becca was right. Steve’s heart being repaired may very well be what breaks Bucky’s, in the end. And there isn’t a single thing he’d change about it. But she was wrong to say that it was brave of him. Helping Steve hadn’t been brave, it was necessary—and probably selfish, too. 

If Bucky were truly brave, he’d tell Steve—he’d tell him—

The hand under Bucky’s cheek stirs, and he feels a light pressure on top of his head—Steve’s fingers, petting gently through his curls. 

“S’okay, Bucky,” Steve slurs, “don’t cry, m’okay now…” 

Bucky snuffles, and his head darts up, finding Steve’s eyes bleary but open, gazing down at him hazily as he tries to comfort him. Bucky wipes his damp, swollen face on his sleeve hastily, trying to pull himself together as Steve shushes him weakly. 

“You’re awake,” he says, voice coming out as a kind of rasp. 

Steve nods, eyes drifting shut again as he lets his other hand fall back to rest on his stomach. 

“You’re crying,” he says. 

Bucky ventures a watery smile. “I’m just—I’m so happy you’re alright.” 

Steve’s eyes stay closed, but he curls his hand around Bucky’s. “Love you s’much,” he mumbles, and Bucky blinks hard as he takes in a sharp breath. “You’re so good…don’t deserve…” 

It’s Bucky’s turn to hush Steve, softly. Steve clearly isn’t all there yet, muddled by pain killers and the lingering effects of anesthesia.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, stroking Steve’s hand soothingly, “it’s okay, you can sleep. I’ll be here.” 

“Don’t leave me, Buck…” Steve says, and it sounds much further away now, as he’s already sinking back under the pull of unconsciousness.

“I won’t,” Bucky promises. “I’ll stay right here.” 

He hiccups a little, and sniffles again, watching Steve’s face for any more signs of waking up. He’s not sure, but he thinks Steve looks a little less pained now, more peaceful, like the sleep is real rather than gas-induced. He hopes that’s a good sign. 

He’s going to savor this time, hard as it is, when Steve wants him here—is asking him to stay. 

After Steve recovers—it will be Bucky’s turn. 

He won’t pile this all on Steve now (or in the immediate future), it’s not fair when he’s still a captive audience stuck in a hospital bed and feeling indebted to Bucky for helping to save his life. 

But when he’s better, before he leaves for good and calls an end to all of it—Bucky will tell him. He has to. 

Bucky promises himself that he won’t let Steve Rogers take his new heart and walk out of his life without telling him exactly how much Bucky never wants to be without him. 

He just hopes he’s not too much of a coward when the time comes.


	11. Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Finally, Dr. Cho visits again and looks over Steve’s stuff with a grin._
> 
> _“Steve Rogers—I think it’s time we get you out of here. Don’t you know hospitals are for sick people?"_
> 
> _“That’s what I keep telling this idiot!” Steve says, gesturing affectionately at Bucky. “When?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I had been able to finish writing this like a WEEK sooner this would've lined up with actual Christmas, hopefully you aren't too sick of it at this point haha.

“Just like, three hours Bucky, I’ll be _fine_ ,” Steve says. 

“And I told _you_ , I’m alright here—I washed my hair in the sink this morning and everything!” Bucky shoots back, with a glare at Steve from where he sits on the portable bed they’d set up for him alongside the wall of Steve’s room. 

Steve folds his arms over his chest—which is annoying because stubbornness, but also pretty cool because it means his incision isn’t hurting so much today. 

“ _Bucky_ ,” Steve says, warningly. “I have my phone now. I got Nina to find it while you were asleep. I’m _telling_ Natasha to come pick you up—go take a shower, take a nap at her place, get some fucking food that wasn’t prepared in this hospital, I’m _begging you_.” 

Bucky glares again, and then looks down deliberately at the novel in his lap instead. It’s a bodice-ripper he’d picked up yesterday in the gift store from pure boredom—it’s not bad. He’s not going to add up how much he’s spent in that dumb pharmacy store by the time he leaves, he’s decided. Between his need for soap, clean underwear, socks, and entertainment over the past 72 hours or so, he’s pretty sure it’s a small fortune. 

It’s been two days now since Steve’s surgery. Last night he’d been discharged with a glowing review from the ICU, and set up in the much less worrying Med-Surg ward to finish out his hospital stay. It’s nice, actually. The room is a little bigger, they have a window again, and the nurses are only doing bed-checks on him every three hours instead of every one, so they’ve both been able to sleep a little more naturally. This afternoon, Nina had informed them, Dr. Cho has ordered someone to come up from PT to get Steve out of bed to try a lap or two of the hallway. 

Bucky had been surprised, it seems so soon after Steve had had his whole chest cracked open—but apparently they try to get people moving around as fast as possible. 

Steve’s look turns less mulish and more wheedling. “If you go out, you could pick up some non-hospital food for me. Please. I hate jello so much.” 

Bucky hesitates, knowing he’s being played but also unwilling to flat out refuse just about anything Steve asks for—at least, asks for for himself. 

“You could ask Natasha to bring something,” he suggests. 

Steve shakes his head. “Look, I’m going stir-crazy—but I _have_ to stay here until they let me go. _You_ don’t. Please just let me live vicariously through you and _go somewhere else_. Just for a couple hours, it’ll make me feel like less of a jackass, okay?” 

Bucky grumbles in his throat, mouth twisting. 

“When is she coming?” he asks, reluctantly. 

Steve breaks into a grin of victory. “In an hour. I’ll tell her just to text you when she’s here, and then when you guys come back you can come up and bring me some food.” 

Bucky sighs, turning around to punch the lumpy pillows behind him into something more supportive for his back, and gives in. He can’t help the soaring feeling at Steve’s grin, at the fact that he feels good enough today even to be in a bad mood about getting restless. His sharp edges are coming back, and it can’t make Bucky anything but pleased, for now at least.

“Okay. But only for a _little_.” 

Steve nods, still grinning. “Deal.” 

Natasha picks him up at the curb outside the lobby as promised, and whisks him away to her apartment in a tall, shiny building downtown. 

“Get in the shower and put your clothes outside the door,” she commands him as soon as they step inside. “You’re disgusting. I put a couple things in the bathroom for you. I’ll order Thai while you clean up.” 

As reticent as he’d been to leave Steve’s side, now that he’s here Bucky is just short of desperate to get out of his clothes and into a long, hot shower. He feels like Pig Pen—he’s surprised there _isn’t_ a cloud of dirt swirling around him. 

Natasha’s guest bathroom is huge, and Bucky runs the water as hot as he can stand it, after obediently depositing his worse-for-wear clothing just outside the door. 

He feels like a new man by the time he climbs out of her big walk-in shower, and finds she’d left a pile of folded clothes for him. Bucky wonders why she had them, until he notices there’s still tags on everything—with the prices scrupulously sharpied over. He snorts with deep affection and pulls on the items. She’d opted for soft things—a pair of joggers that look sporty enough to wear on the street but that feel like pajamas, a simple grey t-shirt, and a black hoodie. There’s a whole package of boxer briefs too, and although he blushes a little to think of her shopping for them, he’s pretty floored by her thoughtfulness. 

“I threw your stuff in the wash,” she says, when Bucky pads out into the hallway into her spotless living room. “You wanna nap for a little bit while it’s running?” 

Bucky balks, and Natasha smirks at him. “Or we could just get the food, go back to the hospital, and I’ll get them back to you later.” 

He smiles and nods his head, grateful. “I just—they’re going to get Steve up and walking today, and I really want to get back.” 

Natasha smiles too. “I had a feeling you would.” 

The Thai food arrives, and Natasha lets Bucky back out of the apartment without further comment about delaying. 

He feels vindicated when they enter Steve’s room with the bags, and Steve looks up at them with the widest smile Bucky’s seen on him in a while. He may have protested that he was fine on his own—but it’s obvious he’s glad they didn’t stay away too long. 

“Got you something with lots of veggies, no dairy, and no meat Rogers,” Natasha declares, unpacking the bag of containers onto the small beside table. 

“If it came from somewhere other than the hospital kitchen I’ll eat it—I’ll eat restaurant napkins if that’s all you brought,” Steve says, making grabby hands at the table. 

Natasha hangs out with them for a good while, sitting on the end of Steve’s bed, and injecting some much needed new conversation into the stale hospital room. She leaves when a cheerful looking man in a hospital polo arrives and announces that it’s time for Steve to take a walk, but first beckons Bucky over to the door before she departs. 

“Let me know if you need anything else, okay? I know you don’t want to leave him by himself, but I can bring food again or whatever you need—text me whenever.” 

“Thank you Nat,” Bucky says, in a low voice, squeezing her shoulder. “I mean it.” 

She just tips her head, smiling. “You got your extra clean underwear and socks I bought you?” 

Bucky flushes bright pink all the way to his ears, and ducks his head. “Yes _mom_.” 

Natasha laughs, a bright sound like a bell. “See you soon. Keep me posted.” 

Bucky nods, and Natasha prowls back down the hallway and out of sight. 

Steve, sweating and swearing the whole way, does two laps of the Med-Sure floor with the help of the guy from PT the first day. He doesn’t seem perturbed at all when Steve exercises some choice words about sadism on him either—just beams wider and compliments Steve on his stamina. 

Steve looks exhausted, but secretly pleased with himself as he settles back in his bed, and Bucky chooses not to comment, just smiles and suggests they try to find a movie to watch that doesn’t suck on the little tv. 

The next couple of days go in a blur—swallowed up by the strange liminal space of the fluorescent hospital ward. Steve walks further each day, abandoning the walker mid-way through the second. The PT guy is thrilled, and tells Bucky Steve is steady enough on his feet that it would be okay for them to walk around together, as long as Bucky sticks with him for now. 

In between, they watch whatever movies they can find on TV, and trade the romance novels Bucky continues to pick up in the gift store. Steve hadn’t been wearing his glasses when he’d been brought in on the ambulance, and Bucky offers to send Nat or Sam to go find them at his house, but Steve insists that he “only needs them for distance anyway.” 

“What’s there to see in here, Buck? It’s a ten by…whatever room.” 

Still, Bucky catches him squinting at the TV screen now and then. Bucky just keeps his mouth shut—Steve is testy, coming up on a week in here. 

Finally, Dr. Cho visits again and looks over Steve’s stuff with a grin. 

“Steve Rogers—I think it’s time we get you out of here. Don’t you know hospitals are for sick people?” 

“That’s what I keep telling this idiot!” Steve says, gesturing affectionately at Bucky. “When?” 

Dr. Cho looks at her watch. “It’s almost 9pm now. We’ll keep you tonight, but I’ll come by first thing in the morning and start your discharge papers—how does that sound?”

Steve nods, fervently. “Not as good as _right now_ would, but I’ll take it.” 

Dr. Cho laughs lightly. “Alright, I’ll have some instructions for your home recovery—you’re still going to need to take it easy for a bit yet—four to six weeks to full recovery—and _have help_ ,” she adds, sternly, “but you don’t need to be in here anymore.” 

Steve thanks her profusely, and Bucky follows it up with some embarrassing gratitude of his own before they let her escape. 

When she’s gone, Steve turns to Bucky, still looking excited. But his expression sobers a little, with the kind of argumentative bent that Bucky has come to know well—and he braces himself. 

“You should let me call Sam and Nat and them now,” Steve says. “When I go home, they can take turns and come stay with me.” 

Bucky sets his own jaw, stubbornly, and folds his arms over his chest. “Nuh-uh.” 

“ _Bucky_ ,” Steve says, already exasperated. “You’ve already had to take a week off of work to hang out in this dumb hospital with me. You can’t keep that up. I can get other help now.” 

“ _Steve_ ,” Bucky says, equally determined. “I haven’t taken a vacation in like, three years. And now I’m _exhausted_ from all this sitting around in here. You’re really not going to let me take a few more days off to actually just be at home somewhere pleasant with you to recover from all that?” 

“I—” Steve looks mildly confused, and Bucky presses his advantage. 

“Come on, it’ll be great—we both need it! We’ll—I’ll just come stay at your place, for a few more days at least. We’ll watch movies and eat real food and walk around the neighborhood.” He watches Steve, already giving in. “ _Please_ Steve, I need to chill out, don’t you?” 

“Oh…kay. I guess if you…” Steve says, clearly not sure how he got checkmated so easily here. 

Bucky grins—he’s getting better at this. Anyway it’s not _un_ true. Being in the hospital is exhausting, and the sound of just hanging around Steve’s cozy little house instead sounds extremely appealing for more than one reason. But he’ll also be damned if he lets Steve talk him out of seeing this through at this point. 

“I do—it’s settled.” Bucky says, cheerfully, snapping his book shut. “Anyway, it’s almost Christmas and your house is still decorated—my apartment sucks for decorations.” 

“ _Oh_ ,” Steve says, “Christmas…you’re right.” 

It’s only four days off, in fact. Bucky’s surprised Steve hadn’t taken note of the decorations at the nurse’s station on his laps around the floor, but presumably he’s been focusing his energies elsewhere. 

“Won’t you—I mean you spend Christmas with your family, right?” Steve asks, hesitantly. 

Bucky shrugs. The truth is he’d already told Becca not to count on him to be there like, three days ago. 

“It’s not a big deal. I can play it by ear.” 

Steve’s face shutters, looking thoughtful. Bucky readies himself for another argument. 

Instead, Steve just says, “Okay. My place, then,” and lets it drop. 

Bucky counts it as a win. 

The next day, as soon as all the paperwork is through, Steve’s nurses teasingly shoo him from his bed, wishing him and Bucky both Merry Christmas and good luck. 

Because Bucky’s car is still back at the Trinity Community parking garage, Natasha picks them both up at the curb to take them home. 

“I think Sam went to your place earlier to turn on the heat and put some stuff in the fridge, he said he might stop by later,” she says, merging onto the freeway and putting the tall buildings of the city skyline into the rearview mirror. 

“He didn’t have to do that,” Steve grumbles. 

Natasha exchanges a look with Bucky in the mirror and smirks. 

“Say ‘thank you’ Steve,” she says. 

Steve sighs, defeated. “Thank you. I mean it.” 

He swallows, and this time it’s him who looks up and catches Bucky’s eye, and Bucky remembers what Steve had said before going into surgery—about how he was going to try harder to let his friends help if he came out okay on the other side. 

Steve clears his throat. “Nat—I’m sorry I was such an asshole. Every time you guys just wanted to help. Sorry for—” 

“You don’t need to do that,” Natasha cuts in, smoothly. But there’s a smile at the corners of her mouth. “We wanted to do it, and the assholery is part of your charm.” 

Steve laughs, softly, “Okay, thanks.” He reaches over and squeezes Natasha’s shoulder, ducking his head. 

Natasha raises her eyebrows in the mirror at Bucky, and Bucky shrugs, grinning. 

Bucky quietly calls in to work to let them know he’s taking off another week. His supervisor sounds harried (it’s their busiest time of year, after all), but is generally sympathetic and tells Bucky she hopes his husband recovers soon. Bucky tells her he hopes so too. After a week in the hospital hearing himself referred to that way, signing about 800 pages of documents that required him to write _husband_ on the “relationship to patient” line, he isn’t startled to hear it any more. He’s not sure if that’s a good thing. 

Sam had indeed stocked the fridge, and the house doesn’t seem too much the worse for having sat empty for the past week. Bucky gets Steve installed on the sofa under his usual pile of blankets—which he promptly kicks half off, thanks to his new and improved circulation. Bucky beams when Steve complains about how hot it is inside, and takes it as a good sign as he resets the thermometer. 

He changes the bedding out in Steve’s room so it’s fresh, and collects extra pillows from a linen cupboard. 

In the office, he finds a shattered water glass on the floor, and feels a small, echoing spike of fear. This must have been where Steve was when he collapsed. 

Bucky cleans it without comment, and sends thanks out into the universe that Steve called the ambulance in time. 

He fetches his car from the hospital the next day, so that he can stop by his apartment to pack a bag, and also to run errands for them when they feel like it—mostly it’s picking up take-out. Neither one of their taste buds have quite recovered from the tyranny of hospital food, and they’ve taken gleeful joy in deciding what to indulge in at mealtimes. 

Bucky dutifully bundles Steve up at least twice a day, too, so they can go walk around the neighborhood, getting a little further each time before Steve starts to get winded. 

When they get home, Bucky helps him peel off his snow layers onto the hooks by the door, and tries not to stare at Steve’s face—his color high and flushed from the cold and the exercise, and bright with pride and excitement. 

“I haven’t been able to do that in too long,” Steve says, a little breathlessly when they come in from the cold one afternoon, his spirits high. He turns to Bucky, face practically shining with happiness, and impulsively flings his arms around Bucky’s waist in a tight hug. “Thank you, Buck.” 

Bucky is startled at first by the gesture, but quickly wraps his arms around Steve’s neck, leaning into it. 

“You’re welcome,” he murmurs into Steve’s hair. 

On Christmas morning, Bucky untangles himself from his heap of bedding on the couch, and shuffles, yawning, to start a pot of coffee. 

Steve, normally a morning person, has still been sleeping longer hours than his usual since they got home from the hospital. Bucky doesn’t expect him up for a little while yet. He drinks his coffee, and pulls the present he’d bought for Steve and hidden in a kitchen cabinet out to set under the tree, clicking on the colorful lights. 

As he does, an addition to the mantlepiece catches his eye—two bright, red and green stockings hanging on it, one of them lumpy and obviously filled with things. 

Bucky stops in his tracks, his hands wrapped around the warm mug of coffee. Steve must’ve managed to put those up after Bucky had fallen asleep last night—Bucky had never even stirred. Something tightens in his chest, and he clutches the mug, blinking back the threat of tears. 

“Merry Christmas, Buck,” Steve says softly, from behind him, and Bucky whirls, startled. 

“You’re up already?” Bucky asks, in a hushed tone. Something about the moment seems too quiet for loud voices. Even the world outside, blanketed in fresh snow, it soft-edged and silent, some of it still falling in gentle drifts. 

“Like a kid, Christmas morning, you know,” Steve says, smiling. 

He wraps his arms around himself, pulling his fuzzy robe tighter around his slender frame. His hair is still bed rumpled, his face sleepy behind his big glasses. He bites his lip, and opens his mouth hesitantly to say something. Bucky’s brain buzzes, trying to anticipate—

“Bucky do you think…I could have just a _leetle_ cup of coffee with you?” He asks, tipping imploring eyes up at Bucky under his fringe of dark lashes. “I haven’t been able to have caffeine in _so long_.” 

Bucky gives a surprised chuckle. “Are you supposed to now? Do I have to check your discharge notes?” 

Steve squirms. “I’m not supposed to have a lot but they said a bit is okay?”

Bucky nods. “Alright, then a bit of coffee you shall have. How do you take it?” 

Steve smiles widely. “Sugar, splash of milk—thank you.” 

“Merry Christmas,” Bucky says, laughing, as he goes to make Steve a cup. 

He makes a fire in the fireplace, and they both sit cross-legged on the floor with their coffee, blankets around their shoulders, between the the glow of the fire and the twinkle of the tree, talking softly. 

Eventually, Bucky gets up to make breakfast, and Steve trails after him, demanding that he be allowed to help. They turn on some Christmas music, and laugh and talk a little louder and more freely. After they’ve eaten, Steve nudges Bucky’s arm, and nods back toward the tree. 

“You’ve still got to open your stocking,” he says, smiling shyly. 

“I have something for you, too,” Bucky says. 

Bucky puts another couple of logs on the fire, and they pull a few cushions off the couch onto the floor to sit on more comfortably. Steve lifts the full stocking from its hook, and hands it to Bucky, looking eager. 

“It’s just a couple small things—I ordered them before um—before all this.” He says. 

Bucky tips the contents of the stocking into his lap, laughing as a couple of bouncy balls tumble out, pinging off in various directions, along with a pair of small wrapped boxes. 

“Remember how crazy we were about those?” Steve asks, reaching out to snag a bright purple one before it bounces away. 

“Best part of having to go to the grocery store,” Bucky confirms, bouncing one against the hearth and catching it again. 

He picks up the first of the little boxes and unwraps it, lifting the circular ornament inside out. It’s a slice of wood, carefully and delicately hand painted on both sides—on the front is a mail truck, with a bright green Christmas tree tied to the top. On the back is a perfect, painted version of Steve’s sketch of Peaches, complete with the wreath of peach blossoms around her fat neck. 

“Oh, Steve, I love it,” Bucky says, examining all the little fine details on it closely, thinking about how much time Steve must have put in to the effort. He looks up and finds Steve’s cheeks pink, looking pleased. 

“I was just thinking about you wading through the snow to get everyone their gifts and whatever,” Steve says. 

Bucky sets the ornament back into its box gently, and picks up the other package. 

Inside this one is what at first appears to be just a plastic watch, set into a complicatedly woven band. But takes it out to look closer, and Steve leans forward eagerly. 

“You said you liked hiking a lot,” he says, pointing, “this is like a little survival kit thingy in watch form. Here,” he points to the band, “the band unravels into rope, and there’s a compass on the back of the watch, and the clasp,” he turns the watch over in Bucky’s palm to show him, “is actually a whistle on one half, and the other half—you unclip this and it’s for starting fires,” he explains. He looks up quickly at Bucky, face doubtful, “I don’t really know much about hiking but I thought—it seemed pretty useful.” 

A slow grin spreads over Bucky’s face, and he closes his hand around the watch. 

“It is. And actually—” he turns, slipping his gift to Steve out from under the tree, handing it over to him. “It’s a perfect segue. Go ahead.” 

Steve raises his eyebrows, and then turns his attention to the gift in his lap, slipping his fingers carefully under the taped edges of the paper and opening it up. 

“It’s—you got me hiking boots?” Steve asks, voice full of something, looking up at Bucky with one of the boots in his hand. 

Bucky nods, feeling strangely nervous. “I thought—now that you can do whatever you want, maybe I could show you—in the spring. Some of my favorite spots?” 

Steve nods, eyes fixed on the boot, and swallows hard. “I’d—I’d really, really like that.” 

They don’t look at each other as they both pack the gifts away again in their boxes, wordlessly setting them next to each other on the hearth. 

“Should we—watch a movie?” Bucky suggests, looking back up now that he’s gathered himself. 

“That sounds perfect,” Steve says. 

They rearrange their cushion pile so that they can lean against the couch to see the TV. Steve pulls a few more blankets over, and Bucky gets up to heat some apple cider while Steve clicks through the menus looking for something appropriately festive. 

After they finish _Muppet Christmas Carol_ they look at each other in wordless confirmation before starting in right away on _Elf_. 

The afternoon ebbs and flows around them like that, one or both getting up occasionally to make a snack to bring to their blanket and pillow pile, and Bucky continuing to keep the fire crackling cheerily just below the bright sounds of the various movies. 

Bucky’s family calls, all of them crowded around Becca’s phone on speaker to wish them a Merry Christmas, their voices tumbling over one another chaotically as Steve and Bucky laugh and smile at each other over Bucky’s phone. 

After that, Steve requests that they try to make at least one circle of the neighborhood as per their usual routine, and Bucky wraps him up as judiciously as he can against the snow. Still, by the time they’ve gone around the block and come back, their hats are covered in icy flakes, and Steve’s teeth are chattering, though his cheeks are warm and pink. 

Outside the windows of the living room, the world goes dark again, as even more snow continues to heap around the house, weighing down the trees and piling in drifts on top of Bucky’s car in the driveway. 

They make a late, simple dinner, and eat it standing at the kitchen counter as a compromise about Steve’s “no food except on proper dishes” rule. 

“Let’s enjoy the Christmas tree just a little more, before the day’s over,” Steve says, tipping the empty pan and their forks into the sink. 

Bucky follows him, and they lay down side by side, looking up at the tree from underneath, nose filling with the still fresh scent of pine as they peer up at the lights. Bucky feels drowsy from food and their walk in the cold and the warmth of the house, and his thoughts are drifting when Steve breaks the silence. 

“I miss my ma—on Christmas. Still not used to her not being here.” 

Bucky risks a look over at him. In all this time, Steve has still rarely mentioned Sarah, though he knows he thinks of her often. Steve is looking pointedly upward through the branches, but Bucky can see the glistening trail of a tear that has leaked from the corner of his eye down into his hair. 

Bucky considers what to say, when he knows Steve doesn’t really like to talk about it much. So he reaches between them, and laces his fingers with Steve’s, holding it tight. 

“Yeah. That makes sense.” 

Steve huffs in frustration at himself, and wipes his eyes with his free hand. “I mean, I miss her every day,” he says, his voice descending toward a whisper. “But she loved Christmas.” 

Several more tears escape Steve, and Bucky makes a worried noise, unable to help himself. 

“Sorry—sorry,” Steve mumbles, “I’m just really tired. Can’t help it.” 

“You don’t have to help it,” Bucky says, wishing he could make Steve feel better. But he’s also strangely honored that Steve would share this with him, when he usually keeps it so close to the vest. “Do you want to go to bed? It’s getting lateish, if you’re tired out.” 

“No—” Steve shakes his head, then stops, face crumpling a little. “Yes. But I don’t…really want to be alone yet.” His hand twitches in Bucky’s, and he tips his face just slightly toward him. “Bucky do you think—would you maybe—stay with me? For tonight?” 

Bucky’s heart beats rapidly, but he takes care to respond to the request in the most measured tone he can. “Of course. You don’t have to be on your own, I’ll—we’ll have a—a Christmas sleepover. Like old times.” 

Steve sniffs heavily, and nods. “That sounds really nice, actually.” 

“Alright,” Bucky says, slowly pulling his hand from Steve’s and pushing himself up to sit. He offers Steve a hand to pull him up too. “Let’s get ready for bed.” 

Steve lets Bucky guide him out of the living room, pulling the grate over the fire and clicking off the lights as they go. 

He’s used to helping Steve with his pre-bed routine, because even though Steve complains, it’s hard for him to check over his bandages on his own. 

What he isn’t used to is them then brushing their teeth side by side at the counter, turning off the light, and making their way toward Steve’s bed together. Bucky still feels like his pulse is racing much more than is warranted. Steve needs company, he needs comfort, because Christmas is a day nobody wants to have to be alone. 

And yet, it’s impossible for Bucky not to try to memorize every second—of what this would feel like. To be _home_ together. Of what it _does_ feel like. 

Bucky hovers as Steve shuffles toward the left hand side before he moves around to the right. Steve climbs in, rearranging the pillows so that Bucky’s side has half of them. Bucky gets under the covers gingerly. 

Steve turns off his bedside light, and Bucky follows suit, scooting down so that he’s lying more or less normally—albeit a little bit rigid—with his head on the pillows. 

Beside him, Steve takes in a long, shaky breath in the dark. 

“Bucky,” he says, his voice uncertain. “Can we—can I hug you?” 

Bucky lets out his breath in a whoosh, and rolls over toward Steve, reaching for his shoulders to pull Steve against his chest, and wrapping his arms around him firmly. 

“Like this?” 

Steve nods against his shoulder, settling himself more comfortably, to drape one of his arms over Bucky’s waist. 

“Like this,” he whispers. “Just for a little.” 

Bucky just presses his cheek to Steve’s hair, and holds him tight.


	12. Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter folks, including nejinee's adorable Steve art to crown the whole thing :) 
> 
> Thanks for everyone who has left comments throughout this story, I'm so happy to hear that you have been enjoying it and I hope this conclusion is warm and satisfying and gives you all the good feels!!

Steve’s recovery moves by leaps and bounds in the days following Christmas—to the point that Bucky almost feels like he’s the one having a hard time keeping up. But Steve is so thrilled with his new energy, he can’t seem to sit still if he could be moving instead. He sets his workspace up again in the dining nook, and paints with abandon. And he’s steady on his feet now, no longer taking his heavy duty pain medication, even the incision down his torso looks less like two hard edges pulled together, and more like one angry pink ridge on its way to being just a scar. 

Bucky does not sleep on the couch again. 

It happens without discussion, the day after Christmas. When Steve declares that he’s exhausted and ready to sleep, he just…gives Bucky a sort of look. And Bucky raises his eyebrows. And Steve shrugs. 

And Bucky climbs back into Steve’s bed for the night. Steve doesn’t ask to be held again—but Bucky wakes up with warmth all down his spine, he and Steve curled up and pressed together back to back. 

Bucky tries not to think about it. 

He also tries not to think too hard about the promise he’d made to himself in the hospital about telling Steve, when the time came that he was recovered, exactly how he feels about him. That he loves him, and not like a friend, but in a sweeping, heart-wrenching kind of way that leaves no space for anything else sometimes but how much he adores him. 

The right time will be when Steve doesn’t need him around at all any more for his health and safety. That way, if the answer is—is that he doesn’t feel the same—Bucky can leave without a fuss, and without Steve having to be on his own before he’s ready. 

Bucky doesn’t really admit to himself that _he’s_ not ready, in case the answer is no, to be on his own yet. 

By the end of the week though, it’s obvious that Steve doesn’t really need 24 hour supervision anymore, and that there’s really no excuse for Bucky not to go back to work. 

He arranges, against heavy protest, to have one of Steve’s friends drop in to check on him mid-morning, taking turns to go out walking with him each day. Bucky himself will be by at least for a few minutes in the afternoons on his route, and he tells Steve sternly that he’d better answer the door because Bucky isn’t above causing a neighborhood-wide scene if he doesn’t. 

Steve smacks him on the back of the head, fondly, darting away from the couch before Bucky can swipe back. 

“Dr.’s orders are to take it easy for _at least four weeks_ Steve,” Bucky chides.

“Yeah yeah,” Steve says, waving it off. 

But Monday, when Bucky comes around with the mail, Steve opens the door before he can even ring, with a crooked grin on his face. 

“All in one piece, even without your mothering for a whole six hours,” he says. 

Bucky inspects him theatrically, up and down, and lets out a long-suffering sigh. “You’ll do.” 

It’s hard at first, trying to get back into a routine after these weeks where he’s been with Steve non-stop. They invite everyone over for New Year’s Eve, and it’s the most raucous the little house has ever been in any of the movie nights Bucky’s been there for—everyone’s relief and happiness is palpable, and no one’s energy is more infectious than Steve’s, no longer trapped on the sofa but darting between all of them, teasing and laughing so hard it doubles him over more than once. 

By the time Bucky gets through the first week of it (which is a short one anyway, since New Year’s is a holiday) and has rounded into the second, the new rhythm takes on its own kind of charm. He likes going home to Steve and telling him about his day, and asking Steve about his. Steve is churning out art at an almost alarming rate—there’s almost always something new to show Bucky when he comes in, stamping the snow off his boots and dropping his coat at the door. 

Midway through the third, Steve goes up to the city for his one month post-op appointment with Dr. Cho. Bucky tries to take the day off to go with him, but Steve refuses point blank to “let him waste his time sitting around a waiting room for no good reason.” Natasha drives him instead, and Bucky is anxious through his entire route, antsy when Steve isn’t there as he comes by, even though he’d know they wouldn’t be back yet. 

Steve is glowing when Bucky gets home. 

“Guess who got a perfect review?” He asks, raising his eyebrows. 

“Who?” Bucky shoots back, just to be annoying. 

“Just one Steve Rogers, and his fully functioning mitral valve, that’s who,” Steve says, grinning. 

Bucky keeps the smile on his face, even though his own heart is sinking. “That’s fantastic, Steve.” 

Steve nods, excitedly, and returns to whatever he’s cooking on the stove top, humming to himself. 

It’s Thursday. 

_Just one more weekend_ , Bucky tells himself, trying not to feel like he’s bargaining. _It can stay like it is just a couple more days_.

Friday Bucky finishes his route a little earlier than usual. After the crush of the holiday season, January always feels suddenly streamlined, his bag practically light enough that he doesn’t even notice it on his shoulder even when he sets out in the morning. 

When he gets home in the last lingering gloom of dusk, he finds Steve in his makeshift studio in a thoughtful mood. He’s got his paints out, but he’s just sitting on his stool before the canvas, contemplating it pensively, and Bucky thinks his gaze is actually somewhere much further away. 

Steve blinks at Bucky when he steps up on the other side of the easel, his look of deep thought evaporating into a smile. 

“Hi,” he says, lightly, “you’re early tonight.” 

Bucky shrugs. “This time of year no one’s sending much but gym ads, goes quick.” 

“Right,” Steve says, absently. 

Steve chews on his lip, and starts putting the caps back on his paints. “I um—have some news, actually.” 

Bucky stops watching Steve’s deft fingers moving over his paint supplies, and looks quickly back at his face, a wave of nerves hitting him all at once. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Steve say, sitting back on his stool and bracing his hands on his thighs. “It’s good, I think.” 

Bucky takes in a breath, and raises his eyebrows for Steve to continue. 

“I got a job offer today. The art teacher at the private high school found out her husband got transferred unexpectedly to a different office, out of state. She’ll be leaving by the end of the month and they—I got the gig.” 

Bucky stares back at him for a moment, nonplussed. “You—you’re going to teach.” 

Steve nods, smiling—though the expression is a bit tentative as he watches Bucky’s reaction, intently. 

“Full time,” he says. 

“I didn’t know you could just—just pick up teaching, like that,” Bucky says, slowly, as if that’s the most pressing question right now. 

Steve huffs softly, and tilts his head. “I have a masters degree in art, Buck. I can teach high schoolers.” 

“Right,” Bucky says, shaking his head and laughing dryly, “of course. You’re going to—they’re gonna love you. You’ll be an awesome teacher.” 

“You heard me say full time, right?” Steve asks. “So that means I—I’ll be able to take care of my insurance again. I won’t have to use yours forever.” 

Bucky’s head feels muzzy, like it’s full of cotton. _Looks like we aren’t going to get the weekend_ , he thinks, distantly. Then he shakes himself, squaring his shoulders. 

“So what do you—want to do?” He asks, keeping his tone valiantly even. 

Steve smiles again, and slips off his chair to stand, still peering at Bucky curiously. 

“I want…to celebrate,” he says. “I want you to take me out and buy me a drink—because I’m allowed to do that now—so we can toast to it. What do you say?” 

It wasn’t the answer Bucky was looking for—he’d meant, obviously, what Steve wants to _do_ , now that their arrangement has reached the end of its useful necessity. He’s not sure if Steve didn’t understand, or if he’d purposely sidestepped it. But Steve is still watching him, waiting patiently for a reply. 

So Bucky fixes a smile on his face and nods, trying to sound cheery about it. 

“Yeah—yeah! Of course we should celebrate! Where should we go?” 

Steve’s smile goes playful, and he bumps Bucky’s arm with his closed fist lightly. “The Goat, obviously. I can finally take you up on it.” 

Bucky’s smile falters just a fraction, but he recovers it as fast as he can, ducking his head in a nod of agreement, but also away from the intensity of Steve’s gaze. 

“You got it, pal,” he says. “Let’s go celebrate.” 

Bucky splashes some water on his face in the bathroom, which helps a little bit with the panic rising in his chest—but not a lot. He thought he had a couple of days to—to write a speech, or think of a grand gesture, or make a persuasive powerpoint or something. 

But this is it, the last, final thread of reasonable justification for what they’ve been doing has been delicately snipped. He’s out on the tightrope on his own now—no safety net. He’ll just have to figure out how to make the most of it. 

He pulls on clean jeans and a sweater, running a quick comb through his hair. 

Steve’s already dressed and waiting for him by the door by the time he exits. And Steve—he looks—good. 

He’s wearing a pair of skinny black jeans, and a soft black sweater over the top. There’s thickly knitted blue scarf around his neck, just the right color to make his eyes look startlingly bright behind his glasses frames when he looks up and catches sight of Bucky. He looks like an artist—like he works in a gallery in the city with other artists and people of taste. Bucky tugs self-consciously on the slightly frayed edge of his own plain, grey sweater. But Steve beams at him. 

“Ready?” 

“Yeah,” Bucky says faintly, knowing that every cell in him is absolutely, unequivocally _lying_. “Ready.” 

“I called a Lyft so you can celebrate too,” Steve says, gesturing with his phone. “Be here in a minute or two.” 

Bucky nods, stepping past Steve numbly to grab his coat off its hook, shoving his arms into it blindly. 

Steve links his arm through Bucky’s as they step out onto the front porch to wait for the car, and Bucky leans into him—for comfort Steve doesn’t even realize he’s giving. But that’ll come later. Steve’s right, his news is good—and he deserves to be happy and celebrate it. 

The Goat is bright and busy, being a Friday at just-after-work time. 

Bucky is gratified by Steve’s surprised laughter as he inspects the gaudy statues on the porch on their way in, tugging on Bucky’s elbow until he laughs too. 

They manage to snag a small, high table in a corner of the place. Steve climbs up onto the chair catty-corner to Bucky, so that their knees knock under the table, and Steve looks around, drinking it in with a grin. 

“What should I order?” Steve asks, gleeful, “I haven’t had a drink in ages—something with champagne feels right for a toast, doesn’t it?” 

Bucky nods. “Sounds great.” 

A waitress comes by moments later, and Steve asks her for two champagne cocktails. 

“Can you ask the bartender to just surprise us?” He asks with a charming smile, “Whatever he feels like concocting.” 

“You got it, angel,” the waitress says with a little laugh. 

Steve rubs his hands on his thighs, practically giddy. “You know what’s crazy?” 

“Huh?” Bucky asks, gamely, though he can think of a lot of contenders at this point. 

“Thinking about being back in a high school art room again. It looks practically identical to the one I haunted in high school. I never would’ve gotten into painting, I mean like seriously, if it weren’t for Mrs. Helm. Think I could do that for somebody?” 

Bucky grins, watching Steve’s excited face. “Yeah, I think you could absolutely do that for somebody.” 

“I think it might be fun—the job. I never really thought much about teaching but—I don’t know, you think I could maybe turn out to like it, right?” 

“I think you might love it. And if you don’t, you can always look around for something else—down the line a little. World’s your oyster now, you know?” 

The waitress returns, her hands filled with two sparkling flutes of champagne, both topped with a twist of orange. 

“Two French 75’s, cheers gentlemen,” she says, placing them on the table. 

Steve picks up his glass at once, holding it up, and Bucky follows suit. 

“To whatever comes next, huh?” Steve says. 

“And to your health,” Bucky adds, mouth quirking up at the corner, “may you live a hundred years.” 

“Cheers,” Steve agrees, clinking his glass seriously against Bucky’s. 

They sip on their drinks quietly for a few moments, and Bucky tries to get his conversational bearings. He should ask Steve more about the job, he thinks. What he’s excited for, how he even heard about it, and…

Steve picks up his drink for another sip, and this time, it’s his left hand he uses to bring it to his lips, and Bucky’s mind goes blank. 

_Steve’s wearing his wedding ring_. 

Bucky knows he’s staring—that he should look away from the silver band that caught his attention, glinting under the dim orange bar lights. But he can’t tear his eyes away, can’t regulate whatever expression must have taken over his face, even as Steve sets down his drink. 

Steve makes a soft noise in his throat, and Bucky finally looks up at his face. But Steve’s eyes are fixed on the ring too, and he holds his hand out in the space between them, fingers stretched wide as if he’s looking at it for the first time. 

“You’re—you kept it,” Bucky says, his voice a little strained. 

Steve nods, pulling his hand back to twist the band with his right hand. His eyes flicker up to Bucky’s, his mouth parted. 

“We don’t have to do this anymore, Buck,” Steve says, his voice very low as he twists the ring. “I don’t have to be your charity case, I won’t need your insurance to survive.” 

Bucky takes a short, sharp breath. “Yeah.” 

Steve searches Bucky’s face, intently. “I could take it off.” 

Bucky licks his lips. 

“You want me to?” Steve asks. 

Bucky sucks in a long, steadying breath, and reaches across the table, grabbing Steve’s hands in his. He meets his eyes. 

“No.” 

The one word carries more emotion than a single syllable ought to be able to convey on its own—and Steve gasps softly, eyes going wide with something—hope maybe? Relief? But before Bucky can really register it, Steve has freed his hands from Bucky’s grasp. 

The noise of the bar fades into nothing around them as Steve leans forward and wraps his fingers in the lapels of Bucky’s jacket, pulling him forward to crush their mouths together in a desperate, messy kiss. 

Bucky’s hands flutter for a moment, uselessly, before they find their way to the back of Steve’s neck, holding him there as their mouths slot together more gracefully and he melts into it, squeezing his eyes shut tight. 

Steve tilts his head, lips parting, and Bucky responds, letting Steve’s tongue swipe gently, tentatively along his lower lip. 

Bucky leans in a little closer, already angling for more of it—but then he pulls back with a gasp, breathing hard. 

“Hang on,” he says, quickly. “Hang on—” 

Steve’s face falls at once, and he immediately leans back, dropping his grip on Bucky’s collar with a grimace. 

“Sorry,” he says, looking away, “sorry, I thought—” 

“Steve,” Bucky says, cutting off his excuses, grabbing again for Steve’s hand. Steve looks at him warily. “The last time I kissed you we were in front of a bunch of bureaucratic courtroom staff. If we’re going to—I just—” he glances around at the crowded bar, catching at least one or two smirks directed their way. He looks back at Steve, “I’d really like to kiss you just for us, this time.” 

Steve’s lips are parted, his lower still shiny with kissing. Bucky stares at them for a moment, considering just saying _fuck it_ , they wouldn’t be the first people to make out in this bar. But Steve nods his head in fervent agreement. 

“Come on,” he says, huskily. 

“I have to—the check—” Bucky says, fumbling for his wallet, and craning his head around for the waitress. 

Steve growls, yanking out his own wallet and throwing down several bills onto the table, not bothering to count before he pockets the wallet again, grabbing for Bucky’s hand and pulling him toward the exit. 

It’s freezing out, and even a three minute wait for a nearby driver seems to take a lifetime. They stand side by side, and Bucky feels like Steve might be trying to crush his fingers as hard as he’s holding onto him. 

They slide into the back seat of the car as soon as it rolls to the curb. Steve rests his hand on Bucky’s knee, and Bucky runs his fingertips over the ring on his fourth finger with shaky fingers as Steve leans into him. 

Bucky makes a noise, remembering—he pulls his wallet again out of his pocket, fishing for—

His own silver band slips easily over his knuckle in the cold, and he reaches over to cover Steve’s fingers with his. 

It’s a short drive that only seems to last an eternity back to Steve’s house, where they tumble out of the car with mumbled thanks to their disinterested driver, nearly tripping over one another to get to the door. 

As soon as it snaps shut behind them, Steve whirls on him, holding Bucky against the door with his palm in the center of his chest, arm stretched to its full reach. 

Steve’s face is determined as he looks up into Bucky’s eyes, pinning him to the spot. 

“Do you want to divorce me, Bucky Barnes?” He demands, voice controlled, though his arm is a little unsteady. 

Bucky shakes his head. “No,” he whispers. 

Steve relaxes his elbow, leaning in a fraction closer, but not releasing Bucky from his gaze. 

“Then what do you want?” He asks, softer this time. 

Bucky takes a deep breath. He’d never gotten around to working out his speech. But he didn’t need to—in the end, the answer is so simple it’s almost pathetic. 

“You,” he says, settling his shoulders. “I want you, and I want you to ask me to stay even though you don’t need me anymore—because you just want me, too. I love you, Steve. I love you so much.” 

Steve’s eyes flutter closed for a moment, and he nods. Then he opens them, stepping back into Bucky’s space. 

“I do need you, Buck—I do—and I want you, too, and I love you. Please stay.” He says in a rush, words ghosting across Bucky’s cheek as he runs his nose along Bucky’s jaw, breath coming unevenly. 

For a brief moment, Bucky hesitates. It seems impossible that after all they've been through, it could really be that easy. And yet, maybe it is. Maybe _because_ of everything they've been through, in the end this is as simple as anything could be. 

“Thank god,” Bucky says on an exhale, wrapping his arms around Steve’s back and crushing him to him, dipping his head to find Steve’s mouth again with his. 

This time neither of them hold back. There’s no reason to. 

Steve’s hands slide into Bucky’s hair, holding him in place, tipping up on the toes of his boots so that his body is pressing Bucky’s against the door. Bucky digs his fingertips harder into the small of Steve’s back, holding him as close as possible as they kiss and kiss and kiss. 

After a few minutes lost to the movement of Steve’s mouth on his, Bucky has to come up for air, pulling away with a small sigh. Steve rocks back, Bucky’s hands still at his waist, and looks up at him hazily—his cheeks are brilliantly pink. Both of them are still wearing their outdoor coats, becoming stiflingly warm in the heat of the house. 

Bucky lets go of Steve and unzips his coat, shucking it untidily into a heap on the floor as Steve does the same, unwinding his scarf from his flushed throat and dropping it, too. They both kick off their shoes, not really taking their eyes off each other for longer than a moment at a time, as if it might all disappear if they do. 

Bucky grabs Steve’s hand, walking him backward to the couch, and they sink onto it in a heap as Steve turns to sprawl half against Bucky as they reach for one another again. 

They move slower this time, and Steve ends up pushing Bucky back so that he’s half-reclined against the cushions before he crawls into his lap, straddling him. Both of their hands wander as they kiss, Steve’s lips occasionally leaving his to trail across his jaw, nipping at his ear before returning to start over again. 

At last Steve pulls back, framing Bucky’s face with both hands to hold him steady, staring down at him wonderingly in the dim light of the one lamp they’d left on in the hallway. 

Steve is breathing heavily—a sound that six weeks ago would have filled Bucky with fear. But now it only matches his own unsteady lungs. 

Steve seems to be thinking along the same lines, and he removes one of his hands from Bucky’s cheek, pressing his palm to the center of his chest. 

“My heart is beating fast as anything right now,” Steve says, voice rumbling in his chest, “and it doesn’t hurt.” 

Bucky covers Steve’s hand with his, feeling the fast but even thump of Steve’s heart under their fingers. 

“Steve—” he says. 

Steve shakes his head with a rueful little laugh, and returns his hand to bracket Bucky’s face, running his thumb over the edge of his cheekbone. 

“Were you going to say anything?” Steve asks. 

Bucky looks at him for a moment, and then nods, eyes wide. “I was—going to. This weekend.” 

Steve nibbles on the edge of his swollen lower lip, and nods. 

“Were you?” Bucky asks. 

“I was—” Steve starts, and then hesitates. “I wanted to get my feet under me. I didn’t want you to feel guilty, if you didn’t feel the same. Like I’d trapped you into being my Florence Nightingale.” 

Bucky laughs, low in his throat. “I didn’t want you to think you had to say yes, just because I was helping you out.” 

A smile spreads over Steve’s face, and Bucky grins back at him dopily. 

“Okay,” Steve says. 

“Okay,” Bucky agrees. 

“How long have you—felt like that?” Steve asks. 

Bucky shakes his head. “I don’t know—always? But I knew…at the wedding. I knew when I said those vows that I meant it—every word—even if I wasn’t supposed to.” He considers further. “And then in the hospital, at Trinity right after I got that call…I knew I wouldn’t be able to leave you the second that it seemed like you might be leaving me.” 

Steve’s eyebrows furrow, his lashes cast down over his cheek, remembering. His eyes flicker back up to meet Bucky’s again, deep ocean blue in the dim light. 

“I think I knew—a little, when you left that first note about going to the Goat,” he says. “That I wasn’t going to be able to have you around just like any other friend. I’d hoped—that maybe it’d just be simple. That you’d like me and I’d like you and we’d get to just…but then everything else happened and it seemed so unfair to you.” He cocks his head. “And to me too, obviously. Having a failing ticker is only for the faint of heart in the sense that your heart might randomly send you into fainting spells—but you know, not in the metaphorical sense. That sucked.” 

Bucky laughs, reaching up to brush Steve’s floppy bangs back from his forehead. 

“I guess getting married a couple months into seeing each other again wasn’t exactly simple,” he says, his eyes wandering over all the dear lines of Steve’s sharp, stubborn face. “But maybe we can go back and fill in the steps—would you say yes if I asked you out on a date, Steve Rogers?” 

Steve snorts, and drops his forehead to rest against Bucky’s. “I thought we were just on one?” 

Bucky’s mouth curls. “Another one, then. A whole string of them—for better and worse and—” 

Steve cuts him off with another kiss, long and deep and slow. 

“Yeah—yes,” he says, breathily, breaking away again. “To all of it. You should move in with me too—we’ll just do all the steps at once, okay?” 

“I hate to break it to you,” Bucky says, laughing, “but I’m pretty sure I already live here.” 

“Good, I sort of thought you did too,” Steve agrees. 

“I’ll give notice on my apartment, first thing Monday.” 

“Mmm,” Steve says, nosing through the curls at Bucky’s temple. “In that case,” he says, and his voice is impossibly low, and it sends a thrum of heat surging through Bucky’s blood, and he grips his hands tighter to Steve’s hips. “What do you say to taking your husband to bed?” 

“You w—” Bucky clears his throat and tries again, “you want me to tuck you in?” 

Steve sits back in his lap, and flicks his eyes down Bucky’s body teasingly, his teeth scraping over his bottom lip. 

“Something like that,” he says. 

Bucky swallows and nods. “What’s mine is yours.” 

Steve slips off the couch, and holds his hand out to pull Bucky up. 

“You know, I like the sound of that,” Steve says, his voice still pitched at that octave that seems to have a direct electric effect on Bucky. 

Steve twines his fingers more fully into Bucky’s so that Bucky can feel the hard edge of his wedding band digging in between them. 

He follows Steve down the hallway, flicking the light off as they go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can find me on twitter at [odetteandodile](https://twitter.com/odetteandodile) so feel free to come say hi!

**Author's Note:**

> Would love your feedback via kudos or comments, it would make me very happy to know what you think as this goes along! 
> 
> Thanks as ever to calendulaes for the support, and to crinklefries who's been cheering this one on :)
> 
> Final shout out to my cute mailman, Eric without whom this fic wouldn’t exist—you’re a real one, man.


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